SARADINDU BANDYOPADHYAY

The Rhythm of Riddles

Three Byomkesh Bakshi Mysteries

Translated from the Bengali by Arunava Sinha

Introduction by Dibakar Banerjee

PUFFIN
 Contents

Introduction

The Rhythm of Riddles

Byomkesh and Barada

The Death of Amrito

Translator’s Note

Classic Plus

Copyright Page
 Introduction

Have you ever had a relative in a small town? A town smaller than the one
you live in, with lesser things to do and fewer places to go to than you
would expect on a holiday? A town that, having quickly exhausted its
meagre gifts of entertainment and diversions, lays open its quiet ennui for
you to sample?
At that point, do you manage to find a quiet window in a quiet corner in
your relative’s house? And before that, while exploring when no one was
looking, did you stumble upon a trunk under a bed stacked with dusty,
cockroach-infested books an uncle left behind, having gone away?
And in that trunk do you find books with strange, faded covers with gore
—dripping letters, beautiful women screaming and dark, evil looking men
grinning cruelly?
Or maybe the book is so old it doesn’t have a cover picture at all. Instead,
it is one of those old, tattered fabric-covered hardbacks with titles like
A_ventur_s of Dete_tive_ B___o_______ B_____i embossed in faded gold
letters that now look like dried blood smeared over a secret message …
You open the crackling page peppered with small bullet holes the bugs
made. And there it is—written in purple fountain-pen ink now faded to pink
—To Booboon. On his thirteenth birthday. Ma. 1963.
1963! 1963?
The window has a ledge, right? Your aunt’s cook made you a nice
parantha, right? And a glass of chhaas maybe? And the folks have gone
away to visit a cousin’s cousin, isn’t it? The alley outside the window is
deathly quiet, shining in the hard, blinding summer-break sun. The whole
neighbourhood cowers into an uneasy siesta. A lone red kite flies furtively
in the sky. Even the birds chirp mutedly—as if a predator is at hand,
creeping upon us. You turn to the first story. Byomkesh Arrives. It’s about a
spate of murders in the neighbourhood.
Congratulations. You’ve just discovered the perfect way to get introduced
to Byomkesh Bakshi. I should know—because that’s how I did it. And I
imagine many before me did the same, because the first Byomkesh stories
came out in the 1930s.
This gives us two whys.
1. Why do people still read Byomkesh?
2. Why do we need a hot afternoon in a quiet house in a small town to discover Byomkesh?

Let’s see.
A detective story is all about the detective, the hero—and his atmosphere.
One cannot exist without the other.
Raymond Chandler once described a detective roughly as a good man in
a bad, bad world, hiding his goodness. An idealist up to his ears in
selfishness, corruption and crime; but essentially uncorrupted and
incorruptible himself.
He is cynical and hard-bitten, who knows how bad this world can be. He
pities innocence and yet is ready to risk his life trying to save it. (And the
world, by the way.)
Of course, he pretends he needs the money.
Or sometimes, like Byomkesh (who never had too much of money or the
use for it) he pretends he needs the mental exercise because he’s too smart
and bored and needs to solve a problem of life and death.
But the truth is, under all that hard-bitten cynicism and that worldly
smirk there lies a hero you may count on story after story, year after year,
and in my case decade after decade to do the right thing.
Byomkesh always, always catches the criminal. He always protects the
innocent. He is never greedy for money or a BMW. He is smart. Good
smart. Not bad smart—(the kind of smartness some people use to jump a
queue or get an extra pizza free.) But the tough, no-nonsense smartness of
figuring out things for oneself and not taking any nonsense from anyone.
He is honest. He stands for truth. He even hates being called a detective. He
likes ‘Truth Seeker’ better.
We also like to read Byomkesh because he shows us that being honest
and good smart is way cooler than being a jumped-up idiot with a fancy car
and a fancy house talking loudly in a fancy restaurant about his fancy
holiday in Pattaya. (That’s a place in Thailand where people sometimes go
to show off, and needless to say a place Byomkesh never visited but look!
We are still reading about him!)
And in a world where criminals sit inside parliaments, or hog prime time
on television with fawning fans, or cheat other people and live on the 40th
floor in eleven bedrooms—doing the right thing the Byomkesh way is kind
of rare, isn’t it?
Ace detective writers, like the creator of Byomkesh, know this secret.
They know deep down we need a Byomkesh to set this wrong world right
again and again.
That still leaves the window ledge unexplained. Why do we need a hot,
silent afternoon dripping with menace to enjoy Byomkesh?
Remember atmosphere? That’s the world the fictional detective operates
in. The bad, evil, dangerous world he fights through. Why do we need that
so badly in a good detective story?
Because you cannot tell a story about the good without describing the
bad. And because you cannot make the hero win big without making his
battle big.
So they do atmosphere. Bad, dangerous atmosphere. A shadowy, dark,
menacing world of intrigue and devilish conspiracy. The tougher the puzzle,
the harder we root for our hero when he solves the crime.
Often, that atmosphere becomes dark and shadowy quite literally.
Remember all those stories and movies with dark back alleys in the night, a
lone lamppost blinking in the fog and a black car with hooded headlights?
Mere setting for our detective hero. Makes him look good.
But there is a subtler, smarter variety of the dangerous world that smarter
detectives and their creators, like Byomkesh and Saradindu Banerjee,
inhabit as atmosphere.
 The everyday world right outside your window. The street in front of
your house. Your friend’s uncle’s bungalow in Ooty, or Darjeeling, or
Ranchi. A book shop. A sanatorium. A lone cyclist cycling down an empty
street. A letter. A boarding house. Evil and criminal masterminds lurk right
out there in the world you thought was so familiar. And when Byomkesh
unmasks some devilish criminal right in the midst of his benign neighbours,
you shudder harder. Who knew? Who could have thought?
It’s real. Like your relative’s window ledge. Like the hot, lazy afternoon.
That intermittent bird calling could be the arch criminal calling his
henchmen to move in. Or that red kite up in the sky could be the signal that
murder has been committed. Anything is possible. And all this while tea is
being served!
Byomkesh’s world is very ordinary. Very middle class. What’s more,
very, very Indian. He doesn’t wear a fedora hat or a tacky overcoat on rent
from Maganlal Dresswala (like most filmy detectives who copy the
American gumshoe). He wears the ordinary dhoti kurta of the Bengali
bhadralok. He may walk out to the street corner shop for an after dinner
meetha paan while solving a grisly murder. What’s more, his nemesis, the
arch criminal, might be quite content to have a nice meal of fish curry and
rice before planning world domination or the cocaine monopoly of the
eastern hemisphere with chilling, cold-blooded efficiency.
Real people are villains here. People you and I could know easily in our
ordinary lives. Yet these very ordinary, real people, unknown to us, are
planning something horribly twisted.
And in story after story, like the ones in this book, Byomkesh’s mind runs
faster than light and cuts sharper than a Teflon razor to bring these
diabolical criminal to justice. No shoot-outs. No car chases. No explosions.
Just a brain. Lot of logic and courage. And the will to expose the truth. And
that makes Byomkesh not only look good, and good smart—but real.
As real as that window ledge in a sleepy little town. Because at the time
they were written, they were commonplace. Booboon, sitting on that ledge
in 1963, would have felt the real, immediate thrill of Byomkesh’s
adventures.
 I’m convinced that if Saradindu had written Byomkesh today, he would
have been taking the metro or checking out the nearest multiplex for clues
to catch the murderer. The villain would have worn cargo shorts. And you
would have felt the thrill in your bones just as if it was happening to you.
And if you’ve bought this book off the Net or at the nearest mall and
don’t have that window ledge in your flat, do not despair. All you need to
do is to imagine that there is real nasty business happening out there and
there’s someone real smart to stop it. That’s what Booboon felt in 1963 as
he curled up with his Byomkesh.
The truth is, a real, convincing detective doing extraordinary things in an
ordinary world works in every age.
Because without people like Byomkesh, it’ll be a bad, bad world to live
in. It was true in 1963. And it’s true now.
Hopefully, it will be for a long time to come.

May 2012 Dibakar Banerjee

 The Rhythm of Riddles

Byomkesh had been to Cuttack on official work, I had accompanied him

too. After a few days, it became evident that the task would not be
accomplished quickly, that it would take time to rummage through a
mountain of deeds and documents in the government office to unearth the
truth. Accordingly, Byomkesh stayed on in Cuttack, while I returned to
Calcutta. How could a Bengali household be expected to run without the
presence of a man at home?
On my return to Calcutta, however, I had no work. I was feeling a little
helpless in Byomkesh’s absence. Winter was setting in, the days were
getting shorter; and yet the hours refused to pass. Occasionally I would visit
the shop, supervise Prabhat, who ran the shop, read new manuscripts if any.
But still there was nothing to do for most part of the day.
Then an opportunity to pass the evenings presented itself unexpectedly.
We lived in a three-storied building, occupying five rooms on the top
floor, while a dozen or so office goers messed together on the first floor. On
the ground floor were the manager’s room, the pantry, the kitchen and the
dining room, with just one corner room being occupied by a solitary
boarder. We were familiar with all of them, but not particularly intimate
with any.
That evening, I had just switched on the light after darkness had fallen
and opened a magazine when there was a knock on the door. Opening the
door, I discovered a middle-aged gentleman standing outside, smiling
deferentially. I had seen him once or twice on the first floor of our building,
where he had taken up residence recently. He occupied the best corner room
on the floor all by himself. He appeared to be a man of refined tastes, being
dressed in a warm Nehru jacket and a silk churidar, his hair more black than
white. He was well turned out.
Greeting me, he said, ‘Excuse me, my name is Bhupesh Chatterjee. I live
on the first floor.’
‘I’ve seen you now and then,’ I replied, ‘though I was not familiar with
your name. Do come in.’
I gave him a seat in my room. ‘I came to Calcutta a month-and-a-half
ago. I work for an insurance company; there’s no telling where I’ll be next.
Tomorrow they might transfer me somewhere else altogether, for all you
know.’
‘You work for an insurance company,’ I said with some unease. ‘But I
have never taken out a policy, nor am I planning to.’
‘That’s not what I came for,’ he smiled. ‘It’s true that I work at the
insurance office, but I’m not an agent. I came because …’ After an awkward
pause, he said, ‘I’m addicted to bridge. I haven’t had a game ever since I
came here, I’m dying for one. After much effort I’ve managed to find two
more players. They live in Room No. 3 on the first floor. But we haven’t
been able to find a fourth. We tried cutthroat bridge for a few days, but it
isn’t the real thing. I thought I’d find out today whether Ajit-babu is
interested.’
I was indeed interested in bridge once upon a time. Not merely
interested, obsessed. Since I had not played for a long time, the obsession
had died. Still, I felt that playing bridge was preferable to passing my
companionless evenings reading a dull magazine.
‘Very well, very well,’ I said. ‘I am long out of practice, of course, but
still—why not?’
‘Then come with me,’ said Bhupesh-babu, springing to his feet. ‘I have
made all the arrangements in my room. Why waste time?’
‘Please lead the way, I’ll follow as soon as I’ve had my cup of tea,’ I said.
‘Oh no, you can just as well have your tea in my room. Come along,’ he
replied.
 I was amused by his eagerness. I used to be just as enthusiastic once upon
a time; the evenings seemed wasted without a game of bridge.
I got off my chair. Informing Byomkesh’s wife Satyabati, I accompanied
Bhupesh-babu downstairs.
The first room when you went down the stairs to the first floor was
Bhupesh-babu’s. Pausing near his door, he called out loudly, ‘Come along,
Ram-babu, Banamali-babu. I’ve got hold of Ajit-babu.’
Two heads popped out of Room No. 3, which was situated halfway down
the corridor, then disappeared with the word, ‘Coming.’ Bhupesh-babu took
me into his room and switched on the light.
It was a commodious room. There were two barred windows on the wall
looking out on the road. On one side of the room was the bed, covered with
a bedspread, on the other was a cupboard, on top of which reposed a
shining portable stove and everything you needed to make a cup of tea.
Four chairs were arranged around a low table in the middle of the room; it
was clearly a card table. Besides these, the other small items of furniture,
including a dressing table and a chest of drawers, all indicated good taste.
Bhupesh-babu was slightly Western in his tastes.
Settling me in a chair, he said, ‘Let me put the kettle on, the tea will be
ready in a few minutes.’
Lighting the stove, he put the kettle on. Meanwhile, Ram-babu and
Banamali-babu had arrived.
Despite our prior acquaintance, Bhupesh-babu introduced all of us once
more. ‘This is Ramchandra Roy, and this is Banamali Chanda. They live in
the same room and work at the same bank.’
I observed other similarities too; I had not noticed them earlier, possibly
because I had not seen them together. Both were aged between forty-five
and fifty, both were plump and of medium height, their features cut in the
same mould—a thick nose, invisible eyebrows, a square chin. The
resemblance was obviously genetic. I was tempted to surprise them. After
all, I was a friend of Byomkesh’s.
‘Are you related?’ I asked.
 They looked at me in surprise. ‘No,’ answered Ram-babu a little
brusquely. ‘I’m a vaidya, Banamali is a kayastha.’
I was taken aback. Just as I was trying to stammer out an explanation,
Bhupesh-babu arrived with a plate of snacks to rescue me. Then the tea
arrived. Finishing our tea quickly, we got down to the game. The subject of
their being cousins was forgotten.
As we played I discovered I had not forgotten the art of bridge even after
all these years; my playing and bidding expertise were both intact. The
stakes were low; the most one could win or lose at the end of the rubber
was four annas. But playing was no fun without stakes.
Ram-babu and I were partners in the first round—or rubber. Ram-babu lit
a thick cigar, Bhupesh-babu and I lit our cigarettes; Banamali-babu was
content with slices of clove and betelnut.
Then we began to play. After every rubber, the cards were shuffled and
the pairs, changed. All three of them were good players; there wasn’t much
conversation as everyone was immersed in the game. Only the ends of the
cigar and the cigarettes glowed constantly. Bhupesh-babu rose at one point
to open the window and resumed his seat in silence.
When we finished our game, it was past nine; the servant had already
reminded everyone twice of dinner. When we totted up, I turned out to have
won two annas. Pocketing my winnings, I rose to my feet joyfully. ‘We’ll
play again tomorrow, won’t we?’ asked Bhupesh-babu with a smile.
‘We will,’ I said.
When I went back upstairs, Satyabati remonstrated with me. Nine-fifteen
on a winter night was quite late. But, happy after a game of bridge after
such a long time, I laughed away her scolding.
After this our games became a daily affair, the session beginning as soon
as the evening lamp was lit and continuing until nine at night. After five or
six days, I had formed an impression about each of them. Bhupesh-babu
was kind-hearted, soft-spoken and hospitable, extremely fond of bridge.
Ram-babu was grave, taciturn, not given to protesting against others’
mistakes while playing. Banamali-babu held Ram-babu in the greatest of
regard, trying without success to emulate his gravity. Both were reticent,
deeply addicted to bridge. Both had faint Eastern Bengali accents.
We had been happily playing bridge for six days, our sessions on the
verge of becoming a permanent institution, when a ghastly incident on the
floor below upset our regular gathering. Natabar Nashkar, the only
inhabitant of the ground floor, was suddenly murdered. While it is true that
we had no direct relationship with him, even when a ship sails along the
middle of the river the waves do reach the banks.
At six-thirty that evening, I was on my way to our evening game,
wrapped in a shawl. Because I was a little late, I ran down the stairs, my
sandals flapping loudly. Just as I had reached the last step, a bang made me
stop in my tracks. I could not identify the source of the sound. It could have
been a car backfiring out on the street, but the sound was rather loud. No
sound from the street could be as deafening.
After a brief halt I continued on to Bhupesh-babu’s room. The lights were
on. Bhupesh-babu was looking out through the window, holding the bars,
while behind him Ram-babu and Banamali-babu were trying to peep
through the same window. When I entered, Bhupesh-babu was saying
excitedly, ‘There … there … he ran out of the lane just this minute, did you
see him? He had a brown shawl on …’
‘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 of 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.’
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.

‘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 quite 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.
‘Haripada, the servant, had heard someone in Natabar’s room at six in the
evening. What if that person had killed Natabar? And had then pushed back
the supposed time of the killing in order to create an alibi for himself? A
difference of fifteen minutes in the time of death cannot be detected by a
postmortem.
‘I was convinced that the murderer was not an outsider, but someone who
lived in the boarding house. But who was it? Was it Shibkali-babu?
Rashebhari and Banabehari? Or someone else? I did not know who had a
motive, but only Shibkali-babu had the opportunity. Everyone else had a
watertight alibi.
 ‘My mind was fogged; I could not see anything clearly. I had noticed that
Natabar’s room was directly beneath Bhupesh-babu’s, and Natabar-babu’s
window was directly beneath Bhupesh-babu’s. But the thought of a cracker
hadn’t even occurred to me then. Yes, a cracker. The kind that explodes
when hurled, or when it is dropped from a height on a hard surface.
‘I was on my way to the police station this morning in the hope of some
fresh information. As I was leaving, I thought of checking for clues in the
lane near Natabar’s window.
‘I did find a clue. The discoloured stain left behind by a cracker which
burst on the paved surface of the lane directly beneath Natabar’s window.
When I sniffed it I discovered a faint tang of gunpowder. All my doubts
were now dispelled. An excellent alibi had been created. Who had created
the alibi? It could not have been anyone except Bhupesh-babu. Because he
was the one who had opened the window. Rashbehari and Banabehari had
gone up to the window after hearing the bang.
‘Bhupesh-babu went downstairs quietly at six that evening under cover
of darkness. The pistol had already been procured; he entered Natabar’s
room, introduced himself and shot him. Opening the window looking out on
the lane, he placed the pistol on the window sill and returned to his room.
Fortunately no one saw him on his journey to and from Natabar’s room. But
just in case they had, he needed an alibi. Returning to his room, he waited.
Rashbehari and Banabehari arrived in ten minutes for their game of bridge.
But Ajit had not arrived yet, so the three of them waited for him.
‘Then Bhupesh-babu heard Ajit’s sandals flapping on the staircase. He
was prepared, holding a marble-sized cracker in his clenched hand. On the
pretext of stuffiness in the room, he opened the window looking out on the
lane and dropped the cracker. There was a bang downstairs. Rashbehari and
Banabehari rushed to the window; Bhupesh-babu showed them the
imaginary murderer in the brown shawl.
‘Bhupesh-babu did not have to do anything more; the corpse was
discovered in due course. The police came and took the corpse away.
Curtain.’
 Byomkesh stopped. Bhupesh-babu had been listening without a word,
without stirring, he remained the same way. ‘Any errors?’ Byomkesh asked
him, arching his eyebrows.
Bhupesh-babu stirred now, shaking his head with a smile. ‘None
whatsoever. I was the one who made the error. I didn’t imagine you’d be
back so soon, Byomkesh-babu. I had expected Natabar’s case to have died
down by the time you returned.’
‘Two questions remain unanswered,’ Byomkesh smiled. ‘First, what was
your motive? Second, how did you muffle the sound of the pistol being
fired? Even if you fire a pistol in a closed room, the sound is likely to be
heard outside. Did you take no care to prevent this?’
‘I shall answer the second question first.’ Removing the shawl folded
over his shoulder, he unfolded it and held it out before us with both his
hands; we saw a small hole in the new shawl. ‘I was dressed in this shawl
when I went to Natabar’s room, hiding the pistol under it. I shot Natabar
without taking the pistol out of my shawl; the sound was muffled by it, no
one heard.’
Byomkesh nodded slowly. ‘And the answer to my first question?’ he said.
‘I can guess some of it; you had shown us your son’s photograph yesterday.
Still, I want to hear it from you.’
A pulse began to beat in Bhupesh-babu’s forehead, but he spoke calmly.
‘I had shown you my son’s photograph because I realized you would
discover the truth. So I was justifying myself in advance. Natabar tricked
my son into accompanying him from school on the day the riots broke out
in Dhaka. That evening he came to my house to tell me he would return my
son for a ransom of ten thousand rupees. I did not have ten thousand in
cash, I gave him whatever I had; my wife took off all her jewellery and
handed it to him. Natabar left with all of it, but we did not get our son back.
We did not see Natabar either. Several years had passed since then. When I
came to Calcutta after losing my wife and son, one day I suddenly spotted
Natabar on the road. And then …’
‘I see,’ said Byomkesh. ‘There is no need to say anything more,
Bhupesh-babu.’
 Bhupesh-babu remained immobile for a few moments. Then he said,
‘What do you wish to do with me?’
Byomkesh looked at the ceiling for a while. Then he said, ‘“No one
hangs for killing a crow,” the writer Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay had said.
I believe no one should hang for killing a vulture either. You need not
worry.’
 Byomkesh and Barada

It wasn’t so very long ago that Barada-babu, the ghost-seeker, had run into
Byomkesh, the truth-seeker. Byomkesh was by nature opposed to the
outdoors; he preferred to spin his spider’s web in a corner of the room. But
on that occasion he had surprised everyone with a journey of three hundred
miles.
A childhood friend of Byomkesh’s was employed as Deputy
Superintendent of Police in the state of Bihar. He had been transferred to
Munger some time earlier and had begun to hurl letters at Byomkesh at
regular intervals. There must have been a hidden motive behind his cordial
invitations; for the mind refuses to imagine that a DSP would want to revive
an ancient, half-forgotten friendship without any reason.
It was the middle of September; the clouds had lost their colour, perhaps
due to their excessive extravagance. On a day such as this Byomkesh
suggested with a kind of desperation on receiving a letter from his
policeman friend, ‘Let us visit Munger.’
I was ready. There’s something in the autumn air before Durga Puja that
relentlessly pushes the resident Bengali away from home and the non-
resident Bengali, towards it. ‘Let’s,’ I said happily.
Arriving at Munger at the appointed hour, we discovered the DSP waiting
for us. His name was Shashanka-babu. Probably the same age as ourselves,
he had not yet crossed his thirties; yet his expression and behaviour had
already acquired an air of middle-aged gravity. It seemed he had aged under
the weight of additional responsibilities thrust on upon him while still
relatively young. He took us to his official quarters inside the fort and
settled us in.
The part of Munger referred to as ‘fort’ retains none of its fortitude; but
once upon a time it had in fact been Mir Kasim’s impregnable fort. It was a
circular area with a perimeter of almost a quarter of a mile, surrounded by
ramparts and a moat, with the Ganga flowing on the left. There were only
three exit gates. At present the fort held—besides the living quarters for
high-ranking state and judicial officials, the jail, and an extensive
playground—the residences of a handful of ordinary citizens too. The town,
the market and actual human habitation were outside; the fort was
seemingly a sovereign, upper-class enclave for royals and noblemen.
I became acquainted with Shashanka-babu at his residence over breakfast
and a cup of tea. He welcomed us profusely; but I observed that the man
was exceedingly cunning, considerably adept at conversation. Unless you
paid close attention, you would not realize how he had unobtrusively got to
the point during seemingly aimless chatter about memories of old
friendship and a list of sights worth seeing in Munger. At least, there was no
doubt that he was a man of action, bringing up the real issue with such
verbal finesse that there could be no scope for resentment or dissatisfaction.
As a matter of fact I had not even grasped that he had raised the real issue
within half an hour of our reaching his residence; but a hint of amusement
in Byomkesh’s eyes alerted me. ‘I shall not disappoint you with sights like
historic ruins or hot water springs alone,’ Shashanka-babu was saying at the
time. ‘If you are interested in the supernatural, I can show you something of
that too. A mysterious ghost has arrived in our town lately—I am somewhat
perturbed by him.’
‘Are you normally perturbed by ghosts in your line of duty?’ asked
Byomkesh.
‘Not at all,’ Shashanka-babu smiled. ‘But the way things have turned out
… The thing is, a gentleman died rather mysteriously in this very fort about
six months ago. The mystery of his death has not been solved yet, but his
spirit has already started haunting the house he lived in.’
 Byomkesh put down his empty cup; I observed deep amusement playing
in his eyes. Wiping his mouth carefully with a handkerchief, he drawled,
‘Shashanka, I can see your conversational skills are as strong as ever—
constant application has refined it further. It has been less than an hour
since we set foot in Munger, yet I am already drawn to your local drama by
the description you gave. Give me all the details.’
A meeting of true minds. Grasping what Byomkesh was hinting at,
Shashanka-babu may have been slightly embarrassed. But his expression
betrayed none of this. ‘Another cup of tea?’ he said casually. ‘No? Some
paan? Here you are, Ajit-babu. All right, let me recount the incident;
although it is not particularly spine-tingling. It took place six months ago
…’
Popping some paan into his mouth, Shashanka-babu began his story.
‘There is a particular house in the fort, near the southern gate. Although
small, it is two-storied, with a clearing around it. The houses inside the fort
are all at some distance from each other; not as congested as the houses in
cities. Every house has its own compound. The owner of this house is a rich
local nobleman—he rents it out.
‘This man who had occupied the house for the past fifteen years was
named Baikuntha Das. He was getting on in years—a goldsmith by caste.
He had a gold-and-silver shop in the market, but that was only for show.
His real business was with jewels. His account books showed that he had
fifty-one precious jewels in his possession when he died—diamonds, pearls,
rubies and emeralds whose value amounted to some two-and-a-half lakh
rupees.
‘He used to keep all these precious jewels at home and not in his shop.
And yet the strange thing was that he did not even have an iron safe at
home. No one knows where he stashed his precious jewels. When a
customer came he would take him home, and then, giving him a seat in the
drawing room, he would go upstairs to fetch the jewels from his bedroom to
display them.
‘You can understand from the extent of his riches that he was a wealthy
man. But no one would suspect as much from his appearance. Rather a
harmless middle-aged man, extraordinarily devoted to the gods, a holy
necklace of tulsi leaves draped around his neck—his palms were
permanently joined in supplication. But were anyone to approach him for a
donation for a good cause, he would sink into such gloom and despair that
the local young men had stopped asking him for contributions. His name
too had been distorted in the process; he was laughingly called Miser, rather
than Mister, Baikuntha. The entire Bengali population of the town referred
to him as Miser Goldsmith.
‘The man was indeed uncommonly parsimonious. His monthly expenses
ran to seventy rupees, forty out of which was his rent. He paid for his own,
his daughter’s and an idiot servant’s food and clothing with the remaining
thirty rupees. I have seen his accounts book; his expenses never crossed
seventy rupees. Unusual, is it not? I used to wonder why a miser like him
paid such a high rent to live inside the fort. He could have lived outside on a
far lower rent.’
Byomkesh was lying back in his deck chair, his eyes on the entrance to
the none-too-distant fort of stone. ‘The interiors of the fort must be safer,
with fewer thieves or robbers,’ he observed. ‘Someone in possession of
two-and-a-half lakh rupees’ worth of jewels is bound to seek a residence in
a secure area. Mister Baikuntha may have been a miser but he was probably
not careless.’
‘I assumed as much,’ responded Shashanka-babu. ‘But as the story
reveals, he could not escape the eagle eyes of thieves despite the security
offered by the fort. The theft must have been planned quite some time
earlier. Munger may be a small town, but do not dismiss it as
inconsequential.’
‘Of course not, why would I do that,’ protested Byomkesh.
‘There are a couple of great souls here whose skills at theft, shooting and
murder even your Calcutta might be hard put to match. What can I tell you,
even the government is concerned about them. You know there are many
gun-foundries here dating back to Mir Kasim’s time, don’t you? But never
mind all that now; let me first tell you the tale of Baikuntha the goldsmith.’
 Having used these slightly irrelevant details to drop significant hints
about the vital responsibilities borne by the police and himself, he
continued …
‘On the 26th of April, Baikuntha-babu returned home from his shop at
eight in the evening. He was a simple man, with no premonition of the
imminent mishap. After dinner, he went to sleep in his first-floor room at
approximately nine o’ clock. His daughter used to sleep in the prayer room
downstairs. After giving her father his meal, she went to her room and
locked the door. The idiot servant used to guard the shop at night; he left as
soon as the owner returned. Nobody knows what happened in the house
after that.
‘When Baikuntha-babu didn’t emerge in the morning, the door was
broken down. The police found his corpse on the floor in a sitting position,
its back against the wall. There were no injuries—the assailant had
strangled him to death, and then escaped with all his jewels.’
‘So the murderer entered through the open window?’ asked Byomkesh.
‘So it seems,’ answered Shashanka-babu. ‘Since the only door to the
room was locked, there was no other way in besides the window! I suspect
Baikuntha-babu went to sleep with the window open; it was summer—and
a particularly hot night. There were no bars on the window, which made it
simple for the thieves to climb into the room using a ladder.’
‘All of Baikuntha-babu’s jewels were stolen?’
‘All of them. Jewels worth two-and-a-half lakh rupees gone. Not a single
one was found. The thieves didn’t spare the money in his personal wooden
case either, they took everything.’
‘Did Baikuntha-babu keep his jewels in this case?’
‘Where else could he have kept them? Of course, there’s no proof that he
did. No one was allowed into his bedroom; not even his daughter knew
their whereabouts. But as I told you already, his room didn’t even have a
safe; and yet he used to keep all the diamonds and pearls and all else in his
bedroom. So it must be assumed he kept them in the case.’
‘Was there no other box or case in the room?’
 ‘Nothing at all. You will be amazed to know the room held nothing but a
mat, a pillow, that case, another case for his paan, and a pitcher of water.
Not even a picture on the wall.’
‘A paan-case. You did examine it carefully?’ asked Byomkesh.
Shashanka-babu offered an unhappy smile. ‘Look, we’re not as stupid as
you think we are. We went through everything in the room with a fine-tooth
comb. The paan-case had a hunk of lime and some of the things that go into
a paan, including the leaves. The case was made of brass, with separate
compartments for each of the ingredients. Baikuntha-babu was addicted to
paan—and because he didn’t like the way others made it, he prepared his
own paan. Is there any other information you need?’
‘Oh no, this is sufficient,’ responded Byomkesh with a laugh. ‘There is
no doubting the patience and application of the police; everyone agrees
there. If only they were accompanied by a little intelligence … but never
mind all that. The long and short of it is that one or more thieves murdered
Baikuntha-babu and fled with jewels worth two-and-a-half-lakh rupees.
Have you heard whether there have been attempts to sell the jewels
anywhere?’
‘The jewels have not been put up for sale yet. We would have heard if
they had been. We have observers everywhere.’
‘Very well. And then?’
‘That’s as far as it goes. Baikuntha-babu’s daughter is in a sorry state. He
did not leave any money behind; there wasn’t a single rupee to be found
anywhere. All she has is the little money she got by selling the gold and
silver in the shop. It is distressing to see a Bengali girl from a respectable
family being forced to be a dependant of someone else in a foreign land
because of poverty.’
‘Whom is she a dependant of?’
‘A veteran lawyer from hereabouts—his name is Tarashankar-babu. He
has volunteered to have the daughter stay in his house. You have to say he’s
a decent sort despite being a lawyer. He was on good terms with Baikuntha-
babu—they used to play chess every Sunday afternoon …’
‘Hmm. Is the girl a widow?’
 ‘No, she’s married. But it wouldn’t be incorrect to call her a widow. She
was married young, her husband soon became wayward. A drunkard and a
debauch, he used to act on stage till he suddenly left with a circus troupe.
He has been missing since then. That was why Baikuntha-babu had got his
daughter to live with him.’
‘How old is she?’
‘About twenty-three or twenty-four.’
‘Character?’
‘Upright, so far as I know. Her appearance also favours morality—you
could describe her as a veritable hag. The poor husband cannot really be
blamed …’
‘I see. No family anywhere?’
‘None to speak of. Her father’s younger brother’s sons live in Nabadwip.
Some of them rushed here when they heard. But when they saw there was
not a drop of juice left, that the thieves had taken everything, they peeled
off one by one.’
Byomkesh was silent for several minutes; then he said, exhaling, ‘Quite a
novel affair. But it is probably too late to do anything about it now. Besides,
I am a visitor, here today gone tomorrow. I should not interfere with your
work. You will probably not approve either.’
‘Oh no, why should you interfere?’ declared Shashanka-babu. ‘I’m not
making an official request to you; but you’re a fellow-traveller, if your
observations lead you to certain ideas you can always help me personally.
You’re here on holiday; I do not wish to burden you with responsibilities.’
Shashanka-babu’s intentions were plain now. He was more than willing
to accept help, but he was unwilling to ‘offically’ give anyone else the
credit and thus share the fame.
‘Very well, so be it,’ Byomkesh smiled too. ‘I shall help you without
taking the formal responsibility. By the way, what was that you were saying
about the house being ghost-infested?’
‘Another tenant, also a Bengali, moved into the house some time after
Baikuntha-babu’s death,’ explained Shashanka-babu. ‘Ever since his arrival,
the nuisance of ghosts has begun. Not everything can be believed, of
course, but uncanny things have taken place. A fifteen-foot tall spirit peeps
in through the window at night. Some other people besides the tenant have
seen it too.’
‘What!’
‘Yes. There’s a gentleman named Barada-babu here … Oh, talk of the
devil. Here he is. And Shailen-babu too. Wonderful. Do come in.
Byomkesh, Barada-babu is an expert in the supernatural. You can listen to
the ghostly tale directly from him.’

After preliminary pleasantries, both of them took their seats. Barada-babu

was rotund, diminutive, fair of skin and clean-shaven. All told, he reminded
one of fresh potatoes. His companion Shailen-babu was just the opposite;
tall and thin, though you could not call him frail. We learnt more about
them in the course of our conversation. Barada-babu was a local resident,
earning a living from inherited property and subsidiary ownership rights to
a few houses, and dabbling in the supernatural in his spare time. Shailen-
babu was a wealthy man who had come to Munger to recover his health—
but the place suited his physical disposition so well that he had decided to
purchase a house and reside here permanently. Neither was over forty years
of age.
We introduced ourselves as well—but it turned out that they had never
even heard of Byomkesh. Such is fame.
Be that as it may, after the introductions Barada-babu said, ‘You were
being regaled with the tale of Miser Baikuntha, were you not? Tragic affair
—an unnatural death. I am convinced that his soul shall not find release
unless the last rites are performed at Gaya.’
Byomkesh stirred. ‘Do you not believe in spirits and the afterlife?’ asked
Barada-babu with a sharp glance in his direction.
‘I do not disbelieve them either,’ Byomkesh smiled. ‘They are outside my
calculations.’
 ‘Even if you wish to keep them outside your calculations, they refuse to
be kept out,’ Barada-babu responded. ‘That is where the problem lies. You
did not believe in ghosts and spirits either, Shailen-babu; you used to laugh
them off as a hoax. But now?’
‘It would not be an exaggeration to say I have blind faith in them now,’
Barada-babu’s companion said. ‘Indeed, Byomkesh-babu, I was like you
once. I never bothered about ghosts. But after becoming acquainted with
Barada-babu here, the more we discuss the subject the more convinced I am
that living in this world without taking spirits into consideration is more or
less impossible.’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Byomkesh. ‘Speaking for ourselves, we seem to
be surviving quite well without them. And besides, people’s lives are
already becoming so complicated that to add …’
‘Never mind all that,’ Shashanka-babu interrupted. ‘Barada-babu, why
don’t you tell Byomkesh-babu that ghost story of Baikuntha-babu’s?’
‘Yes, that’s a splendid idea,’ said Byomkesh. ‘Stories are far more
entertaining than theory.’
A flash of satisfaction appeared on Barada-babu’s countenance. There are
many people in the world who want to tell stories—but not all of them are
fortunate enough to have attentive listeners. Most individuals are sceptical,
looking for holes to pick, more intent on arguing than on listening.
Therefore, Barada-babu cheered up as though he had received an
unexpected gift when Byomkesh acquiesced to a story instead of theory. I
realized that he had not been fortunate enough to secure a courteous and
patient listener very often.
Not everyone tells stories the same way; Barada-babu’s style was quite
attractive. He did not rush through his tale—it proceeded at a stately pace;
the narration was not marred by an abundance of incidents, but the events
were woven together with such expertise that the listener’s attention was
gradually subjugated. The expressions on his face and in his eyes
accompanied the story so perfectly that the experience was a fulfilling one.
‘You have heard of Baikuntha-babu’s death. An unnatural death; he had
no opportunity to prepare for the afterlife. We believe that when a soul is
unexpectedly separated from the body, its attachment to the body is not
extinguished—in other words, it is not even able to comprehend that it no
longer belongs to a corporeal body. In other cases, even if it does
comprehend, it cannot overcome its attachment to the physical world; it
continues to haunt the spaces that it was accustomed to inhabiting when
alive.
‘I am not asking you to subscribe to these theories. But the supernatural
story that I am about to recount cannot be explained satisfactorily in any
other manner. The veracity of the events is beyond question. I have a
reputation for telling fantastical tales; but in this case even the most diehard
sceptic has been compelled to acknowledge that there is not an iota of
exaggeration in my story. Do you agree, Shailen-babu?’
‘Yes,’ confirmed Shailen-babu. ‘Even Amalya-babu had no choice but to
admit that the events were not fabricated.’
‘Therefore,’ continued Barada-babu, ‘whatever the reasons might be, that
these things took place is beyond doubt. Baikuntha-babu’s house remained
under the control of the police for a few weeks after his death; meanwhile,
Tarashankar-babu put Baikuntha-babu’s daughter up at his own house. I
cannot say whether any incidents took place during this period, for the two
police constables who had been stationed to guard the house probably used
to sleep too soundly at night after a couple of drinks to be in any condition
to observe the arrival of incorporeal creatures like ghosts and spirits.
Anyway, once the police had withdrawn from the house, a new tenant
arrived. His name was Kailashchandra Mallik—he’s quite ill and getting on
in years. He came to Munger to recover his health and, without making any
enquiries, he took possession of the first available house he found within
the fort. The owner of the house did not display any anxiety to disclose that
a murder had taken place here.
‘A few days did pass uneventfully. Kailashbabu occupied the solitary
bedroom on the first floor—the one in which Baikuntha-babu had been
murdered. His servant and cook lived on the ground floor. A rural
landowner, Kailash-babu was reasonably affluent. He was engaged in a
dispute with his only son, his wife was no longer alive either—hence he
was solely dependent on his servant and cook during this journey for a
change of air.
‘After a week had passed, the ghost arrived. As he was preparing to sleep
at about nine in the evening, after he had taken his pills, his eyes drifted
towards the window. Since it was summer, the window was open—he
discovered a repulsively ugly face peering at him. Kailash-babu screamed,
whereupon his servant and cook both ran upstairs. But the face had
disappeared by then.
‘The same incident was repeated on two other nights. Everyone had tried
to dismiss the first occurrence as the product of Kailash-babu’s fevered
imagination, but they could no longer persist with this argument now. The
news spread. Although we had not been acquainted with Kailash-babu yet,
the news came to us as well.
‘I have a scientific interest in ghosts and spirits. I can neither dismiss
them as non-existent, nor accept their existence unquestioningly. Therefore,
while others rejoiced in the possibility of using the series of incidents as a
juicy opportunity for ridicule, I decided to examine it further; just because it
was unnatural it did not necessarily have to be untrue.
‘One day, a few friends and I called on Kailash-babu. Crippled by his
illness—a bad heart—he had been forbidden by the doctor to come
downstairs; he summoned us to his bedroom. Despite an irritable
temperament, his manners were impeccable—he welcomed us with due
ceremony and provided us with an authentic account of his supernatural
encounter.
‘The spirit had appeared on four occasions in the past fortnight, he said.
On all four occasions it had peered through the window—and then
vanished. There was no fixed hour of arrival—it appeared in the middle of
the night, in the early hours of the morning, and even in the evening. Its
appearance was far from pleasant, its eyes radiating greed and hunger. As
though it wished to enter the room, but was being forced to retreat by the
presence of a human.
‘Kailash-babu’s tale convinced us that we had to witness this for
ourselves. He extended a warm invitation to us. We began to patrol his
bedroom every day thereafter. From sunset till ten at night—sometimes
beyond eleven. But there was no sign of the spectre. Even when it did make
a rare appearance, it was always after our departure; we never set eyes on it.
‘After ten days of this, my friends stopped coming one by one; even
Shailen-babu gave up. I was the only one to continue. I would arrive after
sunset, converse with Kailash-babu all evening, and leave at about ten-
thirty or eleven.
‘Another week passed in this manner. I began to lose hope too. What
kind of a spirit was this that could not be seen by anyone other than
Kailash-babu? I began to harbour other suspicions about him.
‘Then, suddenly, I was rewarded for my diligence. My doubts about
Kailash-babu dissipated too.’
‘You saw the spirit for yourself?’ asked Byomkesh, who had been
listening intently.
‘Yes, I did,’ answered Barada-babu solemnly.
‘Of course,’ said Byomkesh, leaning back in his chair. Then he asked
after some thought, ‘Did you recognize Baikuntha-babu?’
‘I cannot say I did,’ Barada-babu shook his head. ‘It was a face, not very
clear—but undoubtedly human. It appeared dimly for a few moments
before disappearing.’
‘Quite extraordinary,’ remarked Byomkesh. ‘Not many people are
fortunate enough to have seen a ghost with their own eyes; in most cases,
analysing the supernatural encounter reveals that it was either hearsay or a
case of mistaken identity.’
The palpable trace of scepticism in Byomkesh’s statement seemed to cut
Shailen-babu to the quick; ‘It wasn’t just Barada-babu,’ he said, ‘many
others saw it too after that.’
‘Even you?’ asked Byomkesh.
‘Yes, so did I,’ he responded. ‘Perhaps not as clearly as Barada-babu, but
still I did see it. After Barada-babu had seen the face, some of us had begun
to visit Kailash-babu again. One day I succeeded in catching a glimpse for
an instant.’
 ‘In his excitement Shailen-babu made a small error, which was why he
was unable to see it properly,’ explained Barada-babu. ‘Some of us—
Amulya, Dr Sachi Roy and I—were talking to Kailash-babu. We had
become somewhat distracted in the course of advising him to leave the
house, but Shailen-babu had his eyes trained on the window like a hunter.
Suddenly he shouted out “There, there …” All of us turned towards the
window at once, but nothing more could be seen. Shailen-babu had seen a
cloud of vapour gradually assuming a shape. But he had called out before it
could materialize completely, which was why it disappeared.’
‘Still, Kailash-babu must have seen it too,’ Shailen-babu said. ‘Don’t you
remember him losing consciousness?’
‘Yes, his heart was already weak,’ responded Barada-babu. Fortunately
Dr Roy was present; he gave him an injection at once and brought him back
to his senses. Otherwise another tragedy could have occurred.’
After this we sat in silence for a few minutes. It was impossible not to
believe eyewitness statements. Unless we were ready to consider at least
two respectable gentlemen out-and-out liars, we would have to assume that
they were telling the truth. And yet, their story was so unusual that we did
not feel inclined to accept it unquestioningly.
Eventually Byomkesh said, ‘In your opinion, therefore, it is Baikuntha-
babu’s spirit that is appearing at the window of his bedroom.’
‘What else can it possibly be?’ asked Barada-babu.
‘What is Baikuntha-babu’s daughter’s viewpoint on this?’
‘Her viewpoint is not easy to ascertain. I had suggested performing the
last rites in Gaya, but she did nothing about it. Tarashankar-babu in
particular pays no heed to such suggestions—he laughs them away.’
Barada-babu emitted a regretful sigh.
‘Perhaps Baikuntha-babu’s soul would find release were the mystery of
his murder to be unravelled. I know nothing about the supernatural; but
still, if there is such a thing as an afterlife, it would not be unnatural for
spirits to harbour a proclivity for revenge,’ said Byomkesh.
‘Of course it would not be unnatural,’ agreed Barada-babu. ‘The spirit
only lacks a corporeal body, but its soul is intact. As the Gita says,
nainangchhidantishastrani … Weapons do not harm it, fire does not burn it
…’
‘Can you introduce me to Baikuntha-babu’s daughter?’ interrupted
Byomkesh. ‘I would like to ask her a couple of questions.’
‘I can try,’ said Barada-babu after a few minutes’ thought. ‘Perhaps
Tarashankar-babu will not object when he hears you’re a detective. I shall
meet him at the bar library today; if he agrees, I will accompany you to his
house in the evening. That’s settled, then.’
When I realized he was about to leave, I asked Barada-babu, ‘Can we not
see the ghost too?’
‘I cannot promise you an instant glimpse,’ he replied, ‘but if you display
diligence and determination, you will surely see it. Why don’t we visit
Kailash-babu this evening directly after meeting Tarashankar-babu? Well,
Byomkesh-babu?’
‘Excellent proposal. I am particularly keen. I would love to return from
your city with a new experience.’
‘Then I shall take my leave now. It is ten o’ clock. I shall be back at about
five in the evening.’
After Barada-babu and Shailen-babu had left, Shashanka-babu asked,
‘What do you think? Extraordinary, is it not?’
‘I cannot tell which one is more absurd—your murder story or Barada-
babu’s ghost story.’
‘What was so absurd about my murder story?’
‘How else should I describe a murder that cannot be solved even in six
months? Are you sure Baikuntha-babu was murdered? He did not have a
heart attack, did he?’
‘What do you mean? The doctor’s postmortem report clearly said he was
strangled to death. There were subcutaneous abrasions on this throat …’
‘And yet the murderer had left no sign, not even a fingerprint. To call it
absurd is putting it mildly. Barada-babu at least has a ghost he saw himself,
you don’t even have that.’ Rising to his feet, Byomkesh said, stretching,
‘Up, Ajit, let us have our baths. I didn’t sleep a wink on the train; I cannot
be myself without a peaceful afternoon nap.’
 3

Barada-babu arrived in the evening. Tarashankar-babu had acquiesced;

although he was rather unfavourably disposed towards such unnecessary
intrusions into the life of a grieving lady.
We left with Barada-babu. Shashanka-babu was unable to accompany us,
as he had suddenly been summoned by a senior officer.
Barada-babu informed us on the way that Tarashankar-babu was not a
bad sort, and that no other lawyer in the district could match him on
sharpness of intellect. Even the judges feared his incisive and bitter tongue.
We were unlikely to receive a warm welcome from him, but we should not
take that to heart.
Byomkesh smiled in response. He was as thick-skinned as an elephant
when he was pursuing his own objective—no one could humiliate him.
Consorting with him was thickening my own hide too.
Exiting through the southern gate of the fort, we arrived at a locality
named Balloonbazar. It was dominated by Bengalis, with Tarashankar-
babu’s palatial residence situated at its centre. We were left in no doubt that
Tarashankar-babu was a sharp-witted lawyer.
Entering his drawing room, we found a bedstead covered with a sheet, on
which sat the householder, leaning back against a pillow and smoking a
hookah. Tall and thin, his body lacked flesh rather than possessing an
excess of it; his face was angular and his gaze, piercing. His age was
approaching sixty; his attire comprised a dhoti and a white scarf for the
upper part of his body. He sat up at our arrival, holding the pipe of his
hookah in one hand, and said, ‘Do come in, Barada. These are the
detectives from Calcutta, I take it?’
His voice and manner of speaking held a quality that disconcerted
listeners. Possibly this was the sign of a successful lawyer; it was not
difficult to imagine witnesses on the other side becoming positively panic-
stricken.
Barada-babu introduced Byomkesh diffidently. ‘I am a seeker of truth,’
said Byomkesh, greeting him courteously.
 Arching his left eyebrow upward a little, Tarashankar-babu enquired,
‘Seeker of truth? And what might that be?’
‘Seeking the truth is my profession—just as the law is yours,’ answered
Byomkesh.
Tarashankar-babu’s lips curled in a sarcastic smile. ‘I see—the word
detective is no longer in fashion then? What is it that you seek?’
‘The truth.’
‘I heard you say that already. What kind of truth?’
‘For instance, how much money Baikuntha-babu had left with you,’
Byomkesh responded in a measured tone. ‘Learning truths such as these
will do for now.’
Every sign of sarcasm and mockery was wiped off Tarashankar-babu’s
expression at once. He stared at Byomkesh, his eyes practically popping
out. ‘How did you know Baikuntha had left some money with me?’ he
asked in utter consternation.
‘I am a seeker of truth,’ answered Byomkesh.
Tarashankar-babu was speechless for a minute. When he spoke again, his
tone was transformed; ‘Extraordinary!’ he declared with a mixture of
reverence and admiration. ‘I have not been witness to such an ability ever
before. Please take a seat, pray do not keep standing. Do sit down, Barada.
Does Byomkesh-babu also have a pet ghost like you?’
After we had taken our seats, Tarshankar-babu took a few quick puffs on
his hookah before raising his head again. Looking at Byomkesh, he said, ‘I
realize now you were merely hazarding a guess. But how did you happen to
make such a guess? Even an assumption needs some ingredients.’
‘But there were plenty of ingredients,’ Byomkesh laughed. ‘Can anyone
believe that a wealthy businessman like Baikuntha-babu would leave
behind no cash? And yet there was no money in his bank account. He was
probably suspicious of institutions like banks. Then where did he keep his
money? Almost certainly with a trusted friend. Baikuntha-babu used to visit
you every Sunday afternoon to play chess. You have taken his daughter
under your wing after his death; therefore one must conclude that you were
his most trusted and most trustworthy friend.’
 ‘Your surmise is correct,’ agreed Tarashankar-babu. ‘Baikuntha had no
faith in banks. All his cash was always kept with me, as it still is. It is not a
small sum of money, some seventeen thousand rupees. But I have not
revealed the existence of this money; I did not wish to have it known after
his death. But since Byomkesh-babu has discovered the truth I have no
choice but to admit it. Still, I would prefer that this not be revealed to
anyone else. The three of you know, but no one else should. Do you follow
me, Barada?’
Barada-babu nodded, his doubt reflected on his face.
‘Is there any particular reason to keep this a secret?’ asked Byomkesh.
After a few more puffs on his hookah, Tarashankar-babu said, ‘There is.
You may suspect I am trying to appropriate the money that my friend had
deposited in my safekeeping—I don’t care a jot about that. There is a
different reason for not revealing it.’
‘May I know what that other reason is?’
Knitting his brows, Tarashankar-babu pondered on the subject for a
while. Then, after a quick glance at the curtained door leading into the
house, he said, lowering his voice, ‘You are probably not aware that
Baikuntha had a scoundrel as a son-in-law. Instead of giving a home to his
wife, he travels the country with a circus troupe. I have no idea of his
whereabouts at present, but if he were to discover by some means that his
wife has come into a great deal of money, he will take her away by force.
After squandering the money in a matter of days, he will vanish again. I do
not want that to happen, you see.’
‘I see,’ Byomkesh responded slowly, his eyes on the sheet.
‘Everything that Baikuntha had has been stolen already,’ Tarashankar-
babu continued. ‘All that remains are these few thousand rupees. If Mr Son-
in-Law turns up to fritter away these as well, what will the poor, ill-fated
girl be left with? What will she survive on the rest of her life? I won’t be
alive forever, after all.’
‘You are right,’ said Byomkesh, who had been listening with his face
resting on his palm. ‘I would like to ask her a few questions. She is at home,
is she not? If it is not too much of a bother …’
 ‘Very well. I don’t think interrogating her will help. But since you want
to, I shall fetch her here.’
When he had left, I asked Byomkesh a question with my eyes and
eyebrows—to which he responded with a faint smile. Since he might not
want to talk openly in Barada-babu’s presence, I could not ask him anything
directly. I began to wonder what kind of a man Tarashankar-babu was …
He returned five minutes later; trailing behind him, a young woman stood
in silence at the door. Her head was only half-covered with the end of her
sari, which offered no impediment to a view of her face; she was dressed
like an everyday married woman. Even if she did not exactly resemble a
witch who had risen from the swamp, she could by no means be termed
beautiful. Still, possibly the greatest flaw in her appearance was the
complete lack of expression on her face. It was doubtful whether another
face so expressionless could be seen outside China and Japan. The
lifelessness in her features had made her lack of beauty even more
prominent. During the entire time she stood before us, not a muscle
twitched on her face, not once did she raise her eyes from the floor.
Offering the briefest of answers to Byomkesh’s question in a dull voice,
without any play of emotions on her face, she vanished behind the curtain
like a mechanical figure.
As soon as she arrived, Byomkesh turned towards her swiftly, surveying
her from head to toe before speaking calmly. ‘You are probably aware of
the fact that you have not been entirely bankrupted by your father’s death.’
‘Yes.’
‘Tarashankar-babu must have informed you that seventeen thousand
rupees belonging to you is in his safekeeping.’
‘Yes.’
Byomkesh seemed a little disappointed. He continued after a little
thought, ‘How long has your husband been missing?’
‘Eight years.’
‘You have not seen him at all in this period?’
‘No.’
‘Nor received a single letter from him?’
 ‘No.’
‘You do not know where he is now?’
‘No.’
‘Is there a possibility of his returning and taking you away if he gets to
know that you have inherited some money from your father?’
A few minutes’ silence. Then—
‘Yes.’
‘You do not wish to be with him?’ ‘No.’
I noticed Tarashankar-babu smiling enigmatically.
Byomkesh changed his track.
‘Where is your husband from?’
‘Jessore.’
‘Is his family still there?’
‘No.’
‘What about your father-in-law and mother-in-law?’
‘Dead.’
‘Where did your wedding take place?’
‘Nabadwip.’
‘Why don’t you live with your cousins in Nabadwip? They are your
father’s brothers’ children, after all.’
No answer.
‘Don’t you trust them?’
‘No.’
‘You consider Tarashankar-babu your greatest ally?’
‘Yes.’
Byomkesh stared at the wall with a frown for some time, then resumed in
a different direction—
‘Barada-babu had proposed performing the last rites for your father in
Gaya. Why didn’t you agree?’
Unresponsive.
‘You do not believe in all this?’
Still there was no answer.
 ‘Never mind. Now tell me, did you hear anything the night your father
died?’
‘No.’
‘Were the diamonds and precious stones kept in his bedroom?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where in the bedroom?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You cannot even hazard a guess?’
‘No.’
‘Did he have any enemies?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Didn’t your father ever discuss his business with you?’
‘No.’
‘Your sleeping arrangements were on the ground floor. Which room did
you sleep in?’
‘In the room beneath my father’s.’
‘Your sleep was not disturbed on the night he was murdered?’
‘No.’
‘Very well, you may leave now,’ Byomkesh told her with a sigh.
Thereafter our business at Tarashankar-babu’s house ended. It was time
to go. As we were about to leave, Tarashankar-babu told Byomkesh
expansively, ‘I am actually quite pleased to see you verify my claims. You
are a man with insights; perhaps you will succeed in solving the mystery of
Baikuntha’s death. Come to me if you ever need help. And please remember
that word must not spread about the money deposited with me. If it does, I
shall be forced to lie.’
Emerging on the road, we turned back towards the fort. Daylight was
about to fade like a woman lowering her eyes; the western sky glittered like
a mirror streaked with vermilion. The crescent moon shone in the middle—
like the reflected smile of a beautiful woman engaged in her toilette!
But Byomkesh did not have eyes for this scene; he walked on with his
head sunk into his shoulders. After we had walked in silence for a few
minutes, I asked him furtively, ‘What did you think of Tarashankar-babu,
Byomkesh?’
Raising his eyes to the sky, Byomkesh chuckled suddenly. ‘He is a very
wise man,’ he replied.

As you entered the fort, Kailash-babu’s house was situated at the end of the
road on the left leading to the Ganga. It was a rather desolate spot. A small
two-storied building stood amidst a low-walled garden, with a few
casuarinas and deodar trees lining the perimeter. The location of the house
suggested that Baikuntha-babu’s murderer could not have been particularly
afraid of being apprehended.
Barada-babu led us directly to Kailash-babu’s bedroom on the first floor.
The room was completely devoid of embellishments; only an iron bedstead
was resplendent in the middle, upon which sat Kailash-babu, leaning
against a pillow.
A servant fetched a few chairs, lit the lamp, and left. The kerosene
lanterns suspended from the ceiling partly dispelled the grey exhaustion
hanging heavily in the near-dark room. Munger did not boast of electric
lights those days.
Kailash-babu’s appearance left no room for doubt about his illness. He
was quite fair of skin, but a waxen translucent paleness brought on by the
disease seemed to have turned his complexion lifeless. A stubble made his
face look even more emaciated than it was. His eyes were restive and
accusing, while his voice had acquired a disgruntled sharpness from years
of suffering.
We took our seats after introducing ourselves; Byomkesh went up to the
window. There was just that one window in the room, facing west; the
garden was visible below. The Ganges was visible in the distance through
gaps in the row of deodar trees. There were no more houses here, the
sandbanks of the river beginning on the other side of the wall.
 Peering out, Byomkesh said, ‘The window is about fifteen feet from the
ground. Incredible!’ Casting curious glances around the room, he took a
seat too.
We discussed the supernatural events with Kailash-babu for some time;
but no fresh light was cast on the matter. But we found him to be
extraordinarily stubborn. He did not disbelieve the ghostly sighting; his
words even revealed that he was noticeably terrified. But in no
circumstances would he abandon the haunted house. Taking the condition
of his heart into account, his doctor had advised him to shift his residence.
His apprehensive companions had been coaxing him too, but like a sick
child, he had clung obstinately to this house. He refused to budge.
Suddenly Kailash-babu said something that startled us. ‘Everyone has
told me to give this house up,’ he said in his customary irascible tone. ‘But
my friends, how will it help if I do—for this will happen wherever I go. No
one else knows the reason for all these supernatural goings-on, I alone
know. You people are under the impression that some Baikuntha-babu’s
spirit is frequenting this place. That’s not true at all—the real story is quite
different.’
‘What do you mean?’ we asked curiously.
‘Baikuntha my foot—this is the doing of a ghoul. The exploits of my
worthy son.’
‘What!’
Kailash-babu’s waxen neck flushed faintly; sitting up straight, he said in
agitation, ‘Yes, the good-for-nothing boy has gone to the dogs. A
gentleman’s son, the only heir of a zamindar—and yet he wants to side with
the devil! Have you ever heard of such a thing? Because I have disowned
the scoundrel, he is up in arms against me. On top of which he has got
himself a godless guru. I’ve been told they drink out of human skulls at the
crematorium. They laid siege to my door one day; I had the doorman whip
them and throw them out. So they have conspired to let loose a ghoul on
me.’
‘But …’
 ‘The evil son that he is—can you not surmise his intentions? I have a bad
heart; if I were to have a heart attack at the sight of a ghoul—that’s all he
wants! My dearest son will enjoy his inheritance with his ungodly guru
without anything coming in the way!’ Kailash-babu laughed bitterly; then,
suddenly glancing at the window, he exclaimed in terror, ‘There … there
…’
We had been listening to him with our backs towards the window—we
turned at lightning speed. It would not be surprising for the blood to run
cold at the sight that confronted us. Darkness had fallen outside; in the dim
light of the kerosene lamp we saw a grotesque face in the black frame of the
window. All skin and bones, it was yellowish-white; a few yellow teeth
visible through parted lips; the demonic look from a pair of ferocious,
hungry eyes sunk in sockets with dark circles under them seemed desirous
of devouring everything within the room.
For a moment we were paralysed. Then Byomkesh leapt to the window
with a couple of strides. But the terrifying face had disappeared by then.
I raced up next to Byomkesh. Looking into the darkness, we thought we
could discern a lean and very tall figure disappearing in the dense shade of
the deodar trees.
Lighting a match, Byomkesh held it outside the window. Leaning out, I
saw there was no ladder or any other means of climbing up the wall. In fact,
there wasn’t even a parapet on the wall that a person could stand on.
Byomkesh’s match went out. He returned to his chair slowly.
Barada-babu had remained seated. ‘Did you see it?’ he said, turning to
Byomkesh.
‘I did.’
Barada-babu smiled dignifiedly, his eyes shining with victorious pride.
‘What did it seem like?’ he asked.
Kailash-babu answered. Now slumped on the bed, supported by his
pillow, he exclaimed hopelessly, ‘What could it have seemed like! It’s a
ghoul. It won’t go without taking me. My time is near, Byomkesh-babu.
Have you ever heard of anyone escaping a ghoul?’ His terrified expression
did suggest that his time was nigh, for his weakened heart would be unable
to withstand such an assault on his nerves.
‘Fear is our greatest enemy—not ghosts or ghouls,’ said Byomkesh
soothingly. ‘My suggestion is, why not give up this house?’
‘I agree,’ added Barada-babu. ‘I am convinced this house is under a bad
star—it’s not a matter of ghouls or anything. Ever since Baikuntha-babu’s
unnatural death …’
‘Ghoul or Baikuntha-babu, the long and the short of it is that the state of
Kailash-babu’s health is such that shocks are not good for him. Therefore
the correct course of action is to move from this house.’
‘I shall not go.’ An unyielding obduracy appeared on Kailash-babu’s face.
‘Why should I? Have I done anything wrong to flee like a criminal? If my
own son wants me to die, very well, I shall die. I do not wish to continue
living as the father of an evil son who is not afraid to kill his father.’
Arguing in the face of rage and obstinacy is wasted. It was late. We rose
to leave; after assurances of returning the next morning, we went
downstairs.
There was no conversation on the way back. Barada-babu attempted to
speak once or twice, but Byomkesh paid no attention. Barada-babu walked
back with us all the way to our house.
Shashanka-babu had returned meanwhile. ‘Well, what happened?’ he
asked as soon as we entered.
Lying back in an easy chair, Byomkesh replied, ‘The ghost made an
appearance.’ Sighing, he added, as though talking to himself, ‘But Barada-
babu’s ghost and Kailash-babu’s ghoul have joined hands to make the
whole thing exceedingly complicated.’
The following day was Sunday. As soon as he had awakened in the
morning, Byomkesh told Shashanka-babu, ‘Let us pay a visit to Kailash-
babu.’
‘Do you want to see the ghost again?’ asked Shashanka-babu. ‘But what
use is it visiting in daylight? The formless one can be seen only at night.’
‘But we may see what does have form—what is material.’
‘Very well, let us go.’
 We arrived at our destination even before seven o’ clock. Kailash-babu’s
house was not completely awake yet. A drowsy servant was sweeping the
veranda downstairs; the door to the householder’s bedroom upstairs was
still shut. ‘No harm done,’ said Byomkesh. ‘Let us explore the garden
meanwhile.’
The grass was moist with dew. The puckered surface of the deodar leaves
glittered in the golden sunlight. The autumn morning was exquisitely
spotless. We roamed all over the garden.
The garden was not less than an acre and a half in area, but there were no
flowerbeds. A few balsam and oleander bushes were scattered, flowering in
neglect. There was no gardener—possibly Baikuntha-babu had not
employed one either. When the weeds grew too thick they were probably
removed by the servants themselves.
We discovered evidence of this at the western extremity of the garden. A
heap of refuse lay by the wall. Ash from the oven, kindling, scraps of paper,
garbage … all of it was piled here. Compressed by the sun and the rain,
there was a mound of refuse from many years.
Climbing upon the heap, Byomkesh looked around enquiringly. Toeing
the earth and ash aside, he peered within. Finding an old tin, he examined it
thoroughly before throwing it away. ‘And what might you be looking for in
the garbage?’ asked Shashanka-babu, observing his actions.
Without lifting his eyes from the heap of ash, Byomkesh quoted Tagore,
‘As our ancient poet has said, wherever you see ash, look beneath the
surface, for you may find … what’s that?’
A cracked, discarded lantern chimney lay there; picking it up, Byomkesh
examined the shell. Then, gingerly inserting his fingers, he extracted a
tattered piece of paper. It had probably been driven inside the chimney by
the wind; and then made a long-standing home of it. Throwing the chimney
away, Byomkesh looked closely at the paper. I went up to him in eagerness.
It was a portion of a printed handbill; it seemed to have indistinct images
of animals. The elements had discoloured the paper; even the ink had faded
so much that discerning the writing seemed impossible.
 ‘What are you looking at?’ asked Shashanka-babu. ‘What have you got
there?’
‘Nothing.’ Turning the piece of paper over, Byomkesh raised it closer to
his eyes. ‘There’s something written by hand here. See if you can read it,’
he told me, handing it over to me.
I examined it thoroughly. It was difficult to decipher at first. There was
nothing left of the ink, only a few words could be guessed at from the
scratches left by the nib—
Trouble … needmon
Or else … father … desperate … your … badd …
I conveyed my reading to Byomkesh. ‘Yes, that is what I thought too. Let
me keep this.’ Folding the piece of paper, he put it in his pocket.
‘The writer was probably not very well educated,’ I said. ‘He wrote
“badd”.’
‘The word may not be “bad”,’ responded Byomkesh.
‘Let’s go,’ said Shashanka-babu a trifle impatiently. ‘What’s the use of
rummaging in the ash heap. Kailash-babu must be awake by now.’
‘Yes, I see his ghostly window is open,’ said Byomkesh. ‘Let us go.’

Approaching the house, we saw Kailash-babu at the window. A withered,

pale face—if this had been night and not morning, no one who saw him
suddenly at the window would have doubted that he was a ghost.
He invited us upstairs. Byomkesh ran his sharp eyes swiftly over the
ground beneath the window. A thick carpet of green grass rolled all the way
to the house; it betrayed no telltale signs.
Entering Kailash-babu’s room, we saw that tea had been laid out.
Although we had already had a round of tea, we had no objection to
another.
The tea was accompanied by conversation. The continuous deterioration
of the local weather, the continuous improvement in medical treatment, the
qualities of empirical medicine, black magic, exorcism—nothing was
omitted. In the course of this conversation, Byomkesh asked, ‘You sleep
with the window shut, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ answered Kailash-babu. ‘Ever since its appearance, I have been
forced to sleep with the window shut—although the doctor has forbidden it.
He wants me to breathe as much fresh air as possible—but I am caught in a
bind. What do you think I should do?’
‘Has it helped to keep the window shut?’
‘Not particularly. But at least there’s no sighting. Since it appears at the
dead of night to rattle the window, I simply cannot sleep alone in the room;
one of my servants sleeps on the floor.’
Rising to his feet when we had finished our tea, Byomkesh said, ‘I shall
now examine the room carefully. Please don’t take it amiss, Shashanka—I
am not casting aspersions on your—that is to say, the police’s—abilities;
but muninancha matibhrama—even the sages lose their heads at times. I
am conducting this examination just in case something escaped your
attention.’
‘Very well—go ahead,’ responded Shashanka-babu scathingly. ‘But if
you can unearth a clue to Baikuntha-babu’s murderer after all these days,
I’ll consider you a wizard.’
‘By all means,’ smiled Byomkesh. ‘But never mind all that. Was there no
furniture at all in this room on the day of Baikuntha-babu’s death?’
‘I’ve already told you there was nothing but the bed made on the floor, a
jar of water and the paan-case. Oh yes, a copper ear-pick was found too.’
‘Very well. Do carry on talking, Kailash-babu, I shall not disturb you. I
will merely move about the room.’
Thereupon Byomkesh began to prowl around the room. Sometimes
looking up at the ceiling, sometimes casting his eyes at the floor, he moved
about in silence with a careworn expression. Pausing at the window, he
inspected the wooden shutters and frame carefully; barring and locking the
door, he tested it. Then he resumed his tour of the room.
Kailash-babu and Shashanka-babu observed his movements with great
curiosity. I forced them into a conversation. No matter how oblivious to his
surroundings Byomkesh might be, being followed by three pairs of
inquisitive eyes would undoubtedly distract him, making him self-
conscious. Therefore, I began a discussion on the first thing I could think of
in order to divert their attention. But still, our eyes as well as our interest
remained centred on Byomkesh throughout our incoherent exchanges on
different subjects.
A quarter of an hour passed this way. Then I found myself distracted by a
story Shashanka-babu was telling about the police, my eyes were no longer
following Byomkesh; surprised by a sudden chuckle, I turned towards him.
Byomkesh was standing very close to the southern wall, looking at it with a
smile.
‘Now what?’ asked Shashanka-babu. ‘What are you chuckling at?’
‘Magic,’ answered Byomkesh. ‘Come and take a look. I’m sure you
haven’t seen this before.’ He indicated the wall.
We rose eagerly. At first we could see nothing on the whitewashed wall.
But then, under close observation, I spotted a clear fingerprint at a height of
about five feet from the ground. As though someone had applied pressure
with their finger on the lime covering the wall before it had set, leaving a
mark.
‘It’s a thumbprint,’ announced Shashanka-babu, inspecting the mark with
knitted brows. ‘What is its significance?’
‘Significance? Muninancha matibhrama. You did not spot this sign left
by the murderer.’
‘Murderer!’ Shashanka-babu’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘How do
you know this fingerprint belongs to the murderer? It is true we did not
notice it earlier, but I fail to understand why that implies it is the
murderer’s. It may belong to the mason who whitewashed the room; or to
anyone else.’
‘That is not impossible. But the question is, why should the mason leave
his fingerprint on the wall?’
‘Why should the murderer, for that matter?’
Byomkesh threw a sharp glance at Shashanka-babu; then he said, ‘That is
true. So you do not consider it significant?’
‘I want to say that there is no evidence of its being significant.’
 Exhaling, Byomkesh said, ‘Your logic is impeccable. In the absence of
evidence, nothing can be accepted as significant. Do you have a penknife in
your pocket? Or an ear-pick?’
‘I have a penknife. But why?’
Shashanka-babu offered the penknife with a disgruntled expression.
Displeased by Byomkesh’s discovery, he was probably trying to dismiss it.
Yet, his point of view did not seem entirely illogical. A fingerprint on the
wall—no one knew when and by whom it had been left—what possible
importance could it have in unravelling the murder mystery? And even if it
did belong to the murderer, how would that help either? When we had no
idea who the murderer was, I could not understand what use the fingerprint
would be.
But Byomkesh began to work the penknife around the fingerprint on the
wall. After loosening the coating carefully, as soon as he inserted the tip of
the penknife below the surface and prised it outwards, a portion of the
plaster, with the fingerprint on it, came loose. Wrapping it in his
handkerchief carefully and putting it in his pocket, Byomkesh told Kailash-
babu, ‘I’m afraid I’ve disfigured your wall. Please have the cavity filled up.’
Then, turning to Shashanka-babu, he said, ‘Come, Shashanka, we are done
here for now. It is nine already, we should not bother Kailash-babu any
longer. By the way, Kailash-babu, do you hear from your family regularly?’
‘Who’s going to write to me?’ retorted Kailash-babu. ‘You are aware of
the exploits of my only son; I have no other family to write to me.’
‘How unfortunate,’ said Byomkesh cheerfully. ‘Well, we shall take your
leave now; we shall be turning up from time to time to disturb you. And I
would suggest not telling anyone about this.’ Byomkesh pointed to the
cavity in the wall.
Kailash-babu nodded his assent.
We went out on the road. The sun had become stronger now. We walked
swiftly in the direction of our home.
‘What is your real opinion about the fingerprint, Byomkesh?’ Shashanka-
babu asked suddenly.
‘I have already given you my opinion; it is the murderer’s fingerprint.’
 ‘But this is obstinate insistence on your part,’ responded Shashanka-babu
testily. ‘We do not have the slightest knowledge of the murderer’s identity
—and yet you claim it’s the murderer’s print. There has to be a valid reason,
after all.’
‘What kind of valid reason do you want to be presented with?’
Shashanka-babu could conceal his annoyance no longer. ‘There’s nothing
I want to be presented with,’ he exclaimed. ‘I think you’re being childish.
It’s not your fault, however; you probably think that the methods of
investigation practised in Bengal can be applied here as well. That’s where
you’re wrong. That kind of detective-work won’t do here.’
‘I did not come here to apply my detecting skills,’ said Byomkesh. ‘On
the contrary, I am here to give them a rest. If you would prefer that I do not
interfere in this matter I shall be relieved.’
‘No, that is not what I am implying,’ answered Shashanka-babu,
controlling himself. ‘What I intend to say is that the route you are taking
will never get you anywhere—this isn’t such a simple affair.’
‘I can see as much.’
‘If you imagine that a single fingerprint can help you solve a case that we
have been unable to get to the bottom of even after six months, it must be
concluded that you have failed to realize the importance of this affair. A
fingerprint or a couple of handwritten words on a scrap of paper found in a
heap of rubbish can make for mystery novels, but not for police
investigations. Which is why I’m advising you to abandon all this
fingerprint business and …’
‘Stop!’
A phaeton was passing; spotting us, its occupant instructed the driver to
stop; poking his head out, he asked, ‘Any progress, Byomkesh-babu?’
Tarashankar-babu was on his way back after a dip in the Ganga; he had
earth smeared on his forehead, a shawl with the names of the gods
embroidered on it around his shoulder, and a sarcastic smile on his face.
‘With what?’ Byomkesh asked innocently.
‘What do you suppose? Baikuntha’s murder, obviously. Found anything?’
 ‘Why are you asking me about this?’ said Byomkesh. ‘I am not supposed
to find anything. You had better ask Shashanka.’
Arching his left eyebrow slightly, Tarashankar-babu said, ‘But did I not
hear that you have been given fresh responsibility for investigating this
case? Be that as it may, what news, Shashanka-babu? Any new
discoveries?’
‘Even if there are, I do not have the authority to publicly reveal facts
known only to the police,’ answered Shashanka-babu insipidly. ‘And you
have been misinformed—Byomkesh is my friend; he is on holiday in
Munger and has nothing to do with the investigation.’
Affection between a policeman and a lawyer is exceedingly rare. I
observed there was no love lost between Tarashankar-babu and Shashanka-
babu. Pouring honey into his voice, Tarashankar-babu said, ‘I see, so you
have found nothing. I had already concluded that the police would not
succeed in achieving anything more … Go!’
Tarashankar-babu’s phaeton left.
What Shashanka-babu said sotto voce, looking angrily in the direction of
the retreating phaeton, was not an endearment. We were all annoyed. No
further conversation ensued on the way, and we reached home in silence.

Byomkesh passed the afternoon in indolence. He gave a single careless

glance at the scrap of paper and the fingerprint before putting them away
again. I was unable to understand the working of his mind; but it appeared
that the interest he had felt all this while in this murder had waned.
Barada-babu arrived late in the afternoon. ‘We have a Bengali club here,’
he said, ‘shall we pay them a visit?’
‘Certainly.’
We had been in town for two days already, but had not yet seen any of
the sights; so Barada-babu took us to the Kashtaharini Ghat, Peer Shanfa’s
tomb, and several other landmarks. Then, after sunset, he shepherded us to
the club.
 It was situated outside the fort. On the way, we saw an enormous tent
pitched in the middle of a field; a crowd had gathered around it—bright
lights and western music emanated from it.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘The circus is in town.’
‘Do you get circuses here?’ asked Byomkesh.
‘Of course we do,’ answered Barada-babu. ‘They charge a pretty penny
too. There was a troupe last year as well—no, not last year, but the year
before.’
‘How long have they been here?’
‘They started their shows yesterday.’
In this context, Barada-babu complained of the lack of entertainment
avenues in town. The few Bengalis there were in town were all engaged in
endless factionalism; hence, although there was an amateur theatre group,
there weren’t many performances. The carnivals that visited now and then
were the only hope. Bengalis try to compensate for the lack of pomp and
diversity in their real lives by playing kings and generals in plays.
Therefore, wherever there were at least two Bengalis, there was bound to be
an amateur theatre group, and wherever there was a theatre group,
factionalism was inevitable. It was hardly surprising, then, that
entertainment was dependent on imported acts.
We arrived at the club, the complaints ringing in our ears.
The entrance to the club was narrow but accessible. Several rooms were
arranged around an open space. Entering, we discovered a sheet spread out
on the floor of one of the rooms, with a few of the members seated on it,
playing bridge; at the end of each rubber their voices rose in criticism, but
everyone turned silent and serious as soon as the next rubber commenced.
In no circumstances could their attention be drawn to anything beyond the
game; no one noticed the arrival of two strangers. Two members were in a
state of trance in one corner over their chessboard; not even a bevy of
dancing nymphs would be able to break their severe penance till the game
was over.
 The excited voices of some other members could be heard in the next
room—Barada-babu led us in there. Several young men were sitting around
a table—among them Shailen-babu, whom we had met already.
Surrounding him like a phalanx, the rest of them had overwhelmed him
with pointed, sceptical arrows about ghosts and spirits.
At the sight of Barada-babu, a faint hope of rescue surfaced in Shailen-
babu’s eyes; extending his hand, he said, ‘Welcome, Barada-babu, these
people here have … Ah, you’re here too, Byomkesh-babu. Do come in.’
The debate was stopped by the arrival of two newcomers. When we had
sat down after being introduced by Barada-babu, he asked, ‘What’s
everyone so agitated about? What’s the matter?’
‘They refuse to believe that I saw the ghost,’ answered Shailen-babu.
‘They claim it was a figment of my imagination.’
‘What we want to say is that a spate of Barada’s old wives’ tales have led
him to the point where he sees ghosts everywhere,’ declared a gentleman
named Prithwish-babu. ‘He’s probably mistaken a bat or some such creature
for a ghost.’
‘I admit to not having seen anything clearly,’ said Sailen-babu. ‘But I can
swear it wasn’t a bat. And if you accuse me of having lost my eyesight from
Barada-babu’s stories …’
‘These two gentlemen arrived yesterday,’ Barada-babu said grimly,
indicating us. ‘Do you think I have converted them too with my stories?’
‘No, we don’t,’ answered one of the combatants. ‘But if you have enough
time …’
‘They saw the ghost last night,’ announced Barada-babu.
Everyone fell silent. Then Prithwish-babu asked Byomkesh, ‘You really
did?’
‘Yes,’ admitted Byomkesh.
‘What did you see?’
‘A face.’
The enemy side exchanged glances. Byomkesh described the
circumstances in which the face had appeared. Silence ensued again. The
joy of victory showed on Barada-babu’s and Shailen-babu’s countenances.
 Amulya-babu had sat by quietly all this while, without joining the
argument. His face reflected a conflict between unwilling acceptance and
suppressed scepticism. His mind was in the state that comes from being
compelled to believe that which we do not want to believe—he would be
relieved if he could somehow strike at the root cause of this unwelcome
acceptance. Now he spoke, purging his voice of combative contempt as
much as he could, ‘That may be so. Since many people say they have seen
the ghost, let us accept it as a true story. But why? Assuming that Baikuntha
the jeweller has indeed become a ghost, how does it benefit him to haunt
Kailash-babu? Can someone explain this to me?’
‘You cannot always get to the bottom of the intentions of ghosts and
spirits,’ responded Barada-babu. ‘But I believe that Baikuntha-babu wishes
to say something.’
‘If he wants to, why doesn’t he?’ snapped Amulya-babu.
‘He isn’t getting the opportunity. His appearance frightens us so much
that he is forced to leave. Besides, the power to assume the form of a spirit
does not always imply having the power to speak too. Ectoplasm, which is
the substance of the form that …’
‘Never mind the pedantry, Barada. We know you have memorized all
those books on spiritualism. But if your Baikuntha-babu lacks the power of
speech, why is he needlessly pestering an innocent man?’
‘Even if he cannot actually speak, there are ways to make him
communicate.’
‘What ways?’
‘The planchette table.’
‘That three-legged table business? That’s nothing but a hoax.’
‘How do you know? Have you ever tried it?’
Amulya-babu was forced into silence. Turning to us, Barada-babu said, ‘I
am convinced Baikuntha-babu has something to say; maybe he wishes to
disclose the identity of the murderer. We should help him. He might be able
to communicate if we summon him using the planchette table. Would you
like to try?’
 Never having seen a spirit being summoned, I was eager. ‘Why not?’ I
answered. ‘Shall we try right away?’
‘No harm,’ responded Barada-babu. ‘Let us try right here—do you agree?
If we can summon a spirit, your scepticism will be dispelled.’
Everyone concurred with enthusiasm.
A small table was fetched at once. Barada-babu said that too many cooks
would spoil the broth, so five people were selected. Barada-babu,
Byomkesh, Shailen-babu, Amulya-babu and I remained in the room. The
rest shifted to the adjoining chamber.
Dimming the lights, we drew our chairs up to the table. Barada-babu
explained the method to us briefly. Placing our hands on the table and
touching one another’s fingers lightly, we shut our eyes and began to think
of Baikuntha-babu. Near-darkness and complete silence prevailed.
Five minutes passed this way. There was no sign of the ghost. Other
thoughts strayed into my mind; I forced myself to concentrate on
Baikuntha-babu alone. Just as I was getting impatient at this tug of war, the
table seemed to move slightly. My skin prickled suddenly. I sat motionless,
the nerves in my finger-ends unusually sensitive.
The table moved again, as though it were turning slowly under my
fingers.
Barada-babu’s baritone was heard. ‘Are you here, Baikuntha-babu?
Knock once if you are.’
There was no response at first. Then one of the feet of the table rose in
the air slowly before falling back on the ground with a sound.
‘He is here,’ declared Barada-babu solemnly but softly.
My nerves tingled even more; my ears began to buzz. But I was surprised
when I opened my eyes. I do not know what I was expecting, but all I saw
was all five of us sitting as before in half-darkness. It was impossible to
perceive the significant change that had taken place—that a spirit had
appeared somewhere close to us from the afterlife.
‘May I ask the questions?’ Barada-babu said softly.
We nodded. He proceeded to question the spirit in measured tones.
‘What do you want?’
 There was no answer. The table was immobile.
‘Why do you keep appearing?’
The table seemed to move a little. But even after a long wait, there was
no clear response.
‘Do you have something to say?’
This time the leg of the table clearly rose in the air. It knocked several
times on the floor—but no meaning was evident.
‘Knock once for yes, knock twice for no,’ instructed Barada-babu.
A single knock was heard.
I realized that the process of exchanging thoughts with the afterlife was
not particularly simple. It was still possible to indicate a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’; but
for a spirit to communicate in detail was considerably difficult. Still, human
intelligence had managed to overcome this obstacle to an extent—the
practice of conveying letters through numbers was prevalent. This was the
practice that Barada-babu adopted; addressing the spirit, he said, ‘Spell out
what you want to say letter by letter, using the number of knocks to indicate
each letter.’
The telegraphic communication began. The leg of the table knocked, then
fell silent; it knocked again, and fell silent again. The statement that
emerged with much effort after a long time was this:
Vacate … the … house … or … else … harm …
After the last knock of the table had faded away, we sat stupefied with
fear for some time. Then, clearing his throat, Barada-babu said, ‘We will try
to ensure that your house is vacated. Is there anything else that you would
like to tell us?’
The table was immobile.
A thought occurred to me suddenly; secretly I whispered to Barada-babu,
‘Ask him who the murderer is.’
Barada-babu asked the question. There was no answer for some time;
then the leg rose.
Ta … ra … ta … ra … ta … ra …
Suddenly the table shook violently several times and then came to a
standstill. ‘We do not understand,’ Barada-babu said, his voice shaking.
‘Tara … and then? Is that someone’s name?’
The table was immobile.
‘Are you still here?’ Barada-babu asked again.
There was no answer, the table had become an inanimate object.
‘He’s gone,’ sighed Barada-babu.
Byomkesh reached out to turn up the light; then, casting a sharp glance at
everyone’s hands, he said, somewhat brusquely, ‘Excuse me, but no one
should remove their hands from the table. I would like to examine your
hands.’
‘You wish to check whether any of us has glue on our hands?’ asked
Barada-babu with a faint smile. ‘Very well, go ahead.’
I was extremely embarrassed by Byomkesh’s behaviour. To openly
suggest all these gentlemen of fraud was simply not done. Doubtless he was
deeply suspicious—but still, he had no right to conduct such a harsh
investigation to assess the truth. Everyone must have been disappointed; but
Byomkesh unabashedly examined our hands. He did not spare me either.
But no one’s hands yielded anything of significance. Placing his cheek in
his palm, and resting his elbows on the table, Byomkesh stared blankly at
the light.
‘So you found nothing?’ asked Barada-babu, throwing a challenge.
‘Extraordinary,’ answered Byomkesh. ‘You cannot even imagine such a
thing.’
‘There are more things …’ pronounced Barada-babu happily in English,
quoting Shakespeare.
Amulya-babu’s doubts had evaporated completely, he asked incoherently,
‘But … did any of you make sense of tara …?’
Everyone exchanged glances. The answer flashed in my mind suddenly
—Tarashankar. I was about to say the name out loud when Byomkesh
clamped a hand over my mouth, saying, ‘It’s best not to discuss this.’
‘Yes, let whatever we have learnt remain with us,’ remarked Barada-
babu. Everyone agreed, with perturbed expressions.
‘This was an extraordinary experience—I still cannot believe it,’ said
Byomkesh. ‘And yet I have no choice but to believe it. Thank you for this,
Barada-babu.’ He rose to his feet.
Shailen-babu and Amulya-babu accompanied us on the way back home,
along with Barada-babu. Their homes were inside the fort.
When we were close to our home, Shailen-babu said, ‘I live alone, I have
my doubts whether I’ll sleep tonight.’
‘What have you got to be afraid of?’ observed Baradababu. ‘It’s Kailash-
babu who should be afraid. How do you think we can persuade him to
shift?’
‘We simply have to convince him to abandon the house,’ said Byomkesh.
‘All of you are trying already, so shall I. Kailash-babu is a stubborn man,
but we have to do this for his sake. Meanwhile we are home now, please do
not trouble yourself any more. Good night.’
Bidding us good night, they went on their way. We could hear Amulya-
babu saying, ‘You’d better spend the night at my house, Shailen-babu. You
stay alone, there is no one else at my house either at present …’
Evidently the planchette session had cast a shadow of terror on everyone.

Shashanka-babu had probably lost faith in Byomkesh; so he did not bring

up the subject of the murder after our return from Kailash-babu’s house that
day. Besides, his workload had suddenly increased, and with the Puja
vacation around the corner, he did not have the opportunity either.
Thereafter, we spent the next two or three days rambling around the town
and its outskirts. It was an ancient place, with many legends and historical
tales having been gathered from the age of Jarasandha to the era of Robert
Clive. The town was irresistible to those with a penchant for history.
As we wandered about, Byomkesh seemed to have forgotten all about the
murder. His only activity in this connection was to visit Kailash-babu’s
house every evening and entice him in different ways into moving out of
the house. His skilfully-constructed arguments seemed to be bearing fruit,
with Kailash-babu beginning to show signs of reluctant agreement.
 Eventually, he assented after a week or thereabouts. A suitable house had
been located outside the fort—it was decided that he would shift to this
building the following Sunday.
On Sunday morning, Byomkesh said over our morning tea, ‘Shashanka,
we should weigh anchor now. We have been here for quite some time.’
‘Already!’ exclaimed Shashanka-babu. ‘Why don’t you stay a little
longer? You don’t have anything urgent to attend to in Calcutta, do you?’
What he said was consonant with courtesy, but his voice lacked fervour.
‘Perhaps not,’ answered Byomkesh. ‘But still, one has to keep the shop
open in anticipation of business.’
‘That is true. When are you thinking of going?’
‘Today. We have spent a singularly agreeable holiday—I shall remember
this for a long time.’
‘Today? Well … suit yourself …’ Shashanka-babu looked out the
window for a few minutes, and then said somewhat glumly, ‘But this whole
business hasn’t been cleared. I do not deny that it is a complex affair, but
considering your reputation, I had expected you to solve this case.’
‘What are you referring to?’
‘Baikuntha-babu’s murder. Have you forgotten?’
‘Oh—no, I have not. But there’s nothing more to learn there.’
‘Nothing to learn! What do you mean? Have you learnt all there is?’
‘Well, you could certainly say that.’
‘What! I don’t understand,’ declared Shashanka-babu, turning in his chair
to face Byomkesh.
‘Why, I’ve known for several days all there is to know about Baikuntha-
babu’s murder,’ announced Byomkesh, his voice tinged with surprise. ‘Do
we need to rack our brains over it now?’
Shashanka-babu stared at him dumbfounded. ‘But … you’ve known for
several days … what are you saying? Have you come to know who killed
Baikuntha-babu?’
‘But I came to know that last Sunday.’
‘Then … why didn’t you tell me all this while?’
 ‘Frankly, your behaviour suggested that the police do not wish for my
assistance,’ Byomkesh answered with a faint smile. ‘The methods we apply
in Bengal appear laughable here, your contempt for fingerprints and scraps
of paper is boundless. That is why I did not volunteer to speak up. Just
imagine how terrible it would be for me if the entire police community were
to mock at my explanation, dismissing it as the stuff of a sensational
thriller.’
‘But … you could have told me personally,’ Shashanka-babu gulped.
‘I’m your friend, after all! Never mind all that, now tell me what you have
learnt.’ He pulled his chair close to Byomkesh’s.
Byomkesh was silent.
‘Who is the murderer? Do we know him?’
Byomkesh smiled.
Putting his hand on Byomkesh’s knee, Shashanka-babu practically
pleaded, ‘Tell me Byomkesh, who did it?’
‘The ghost.’
Flabbergasted, Shashanka-babu stared blankly for a few moments. Then
he said, ‘Are you joking? The ghost murdered him?’
‘Meaning … yes, just that.’
‘Don’t beat about the bush, Byomkesh,’ said Shashanka-babu
impatiently. ‘If you really believe that the ghost committed the murder …
then …’ He gestured hopelessly with his hand.
Byomkesh chuckled. After a turn around the veranda, he said, ‘If I have
to explain everything to you clearly, I cannot leave today—I’ll have to stay
the night. You will not understand until I have turned the accused in to the
police. Kailash-babu is shifting house today; therefore I am hopeful of
nabbing the murderer tonight.’ He paused, then continued. ‘It’s just that one
feels unhappy for Baikuntha-babu’s daughter. Never mind all that, now let
me explain what we must do.’
It was autumn, the days were getting shorter. It was dark by six o’ clock,
and by nine o’ clock the inhabitants of the fort took to their beds and fell
asleep. We had noticed as much over the past few days.
 The three of us left home shortly before nine o’ clock that night.
Byomkesh took a torch, while Shashanka-babu slipped a pair of handcuffs
into his pocket.
The road was empty of people; clouds had gathered in the sky,
obliterating the half-moon. The dim kerosene lamps burning atop lampposts
situated at long intervals along the road merely succeeded in making the
impenetrable darkness of the night murkier. We did not meet a soul on the
way.
When we reached Kailash-babu’s abandoned house, the clock at the
government treasury was ringing nine. Glancing up and down the road,
Shashanka-babu whistled softly; a man emerged from the darkness—we
could not see him, we only made out his presence from indistinct footsteps.
Byomkesh said something to him quietly, whereupon he vanished again.
We entered the house warily. It was empty, all the doors and windows
were open—not a light was to be seen anywhere. The house was as inert as
a lifeless corpse.
We tiptoed upstairs. Byomkesh paused for a moment at the door to
Kailash-babu’s room; entering, he switched the torch on and swept its beam
over the room. The room was empty—the bed and everything else had been
shifted along with Kailash-babu. A cool breeze from the Ganga wafted into
the bare room through the open window.
Shutting the door, Byomkesh switched the torch off. Then, squatting on
the floor, he said softly, ‘Sit down. There’s no telling how long we have to
wait; we may have to be here till three in the morning. Ajit, as soon as I
switch the torch on, you will go to the window and guard it; and Shashanka,
you will perform the duty of the policeman—that is to say, hold the ghost
with all your might.’
Then we began our vigil in the darkness. We sat in silence, motionless;
the slightest movement or sound evoked annoyance from Byomkesh.
Lighting a cigarette to cremate time was out of the question too; the smell
would scare the prey away.
The treasury clock announced the hour—it was now past eleven o’ clock.
There was no knowing when he would turn up. Meanwhile my eyelids were
growing heavy.
Telling myself that the evening had just begun, I had barely opened my
mouth in surrender to an unconquerable urge to yawn when Byomkesh
clamped his fingers on my knee. The yawn ended abruptly halfway.
There was a sound near the window. I could see nothing; only a low,
indistinct sound penetrated my senses. It was not repeated. I held my breath
in an attempt to listen, but I could hear nothing—only a hammering in my
heart like a drum kept growing stronger.
Suddenly I was startled by the rustle of someone dragging his feet across
the floor very close to us. A person had entered the room, and was no more
than a couple of feet away—but I could not see him at all. Was he aware of
our presence in the room? Who was he? What would he do now? A chill ran
down my spine.
Just like the rays of the morning sun entering the room through a crack in
the barred door, a sliver of light came to life in the middle of the room,
falling on the wall before us. It was an exceedingly thin beam, but it
appeared to brighten the room. We saw a tall, dark figure standing with his
back to us, seeking something on the wall with the light from a torch in his
hand.
Advancing towards the wall, the dark figure examined the layer of lime
on it with great concentration. An inarticulate sound emerged from his
throat, as though he had found what he was seeking.
Byomkesh switched on his torch. I was momentarily blinded by the
dazzle. Then I raced to the window to take up a position before it.
The stranger had turned in a flash, shielding his eyes with his hand. I
could not see his face. Then several events took place almost
simultaneously. The intruder sprang at me like a tiger, Shashanka-babu leapt
on him, and all three of us went down on the floor in a huddle.
But the struggle and thrashing about did not stop. Shashanka-babu tried
to pin the intruder to the ground like a wrestler; he bit Shashanka-babu
sharply on the shoulder and jumped to his feet. But Shashanka-babu wasn’t
going to give up easily; he clung to the intruder’s feet. The stranger could
not shake him off; he advanced towards the window, dragging Shashanka-
babu behind him. Now I caught a glimpse of his contorted, grotesquely
painted face in the light of torch. A ghost indeed.
Byomkesh said calmly, ‘You will only suffer if you try to escape through
the window, Shailen-babu. Your stilts are no longer there; they have been
removed by constable Bhanupratap Singh and his associates, who are
waiting for you.’ Raising his voice, he continued, ‘Please come upstairs,
Constable Singh.’
The grotesque face turned towards me. Shailen-babu! Our harmless
Shailen-babu … in this form! I was numb with astonishment.
For a few moments, the demonic, hungry eyes on Shailen-babu’s
contorted face, turned towards Byomkesh, seemed about to burst. Baring
his teeth like a feral beast, he attempted to say something; but only
something akin to a groan emerged. Suddenly he slumped to the ground.
When Shashanka-babu had risen to his feet after letting go of Shailen-
babu’s legs, Byomkesh said, ‘Shashanka, you may know Shailen-babu, but
you are probably not aware of his actual identity. I see your shoulder is
bleeding; it isn’t serious, a spot of tincture iodine will be sufficient. Besides,
since you have accepted a position with the police, you will certainly have
to accept the side effects of the job. Never mind all that, let me reveal
Shailen-babu’s real identity. He is a well-known gymnast at the circus—and
Baikuntha-babu’s missing son-in-law. If he has in fact only bitten you on
your shoulder, you could consider it as the proverbial joke on the part of the
son-in-law.
But Shashanka-babu was unable to consider it a joke; with a muted roar
he clamped his handcuffs on the son-in-law’s wrists. At that very moment,
constable Bhanupratap Singh arrived in the room, complete with his giant
whiskers and curling moustache, and saluted.

Glancing at his watch, Byomkesh said, ‘Only seventeen minutes to go.

Therefore I shall present my explanation swiftly before departing for the
station.’
 It is needless to describe the sensation caused in the town by the arrest of
Baikuntha-babu’s murderer. Somehow people had come to know that it was
Byomkesh who had made the impossible come true. Despite trying his best
to maintain an air of affection as well as satisfaction, Shashanka-babu had
failed miserably at the task. Therefore we had decided to return to Calcutta
without any further unnecessary delay.
Kailash-babu had returned to his former residence. We were gathered in
his bedroom before our departure. Shashanka-babu, Barada-babu and
Amulya-babu were present; half-sitting, half-lying on his bed, Kailash-babu
was striving to summon an unfamiliarly pleasant expression to his
countenance. His remorse for falsely suspecting his son was evident.
‘Now I realize that it was neither a ghost nor a ghoul but Shailen-babu,’
he exclaimed suddenly. ‘Oh, how devious the man is! Do you remember
how he had sat here in this room and cried “there … there!”? All lies. He
had seen nothing—he was merely trying to deceive us. So that we could not
imagine that he himself was the ghost. Now, Byomkesh-babu, pray explain
how you solved the mystery.’
Everyone looked at Byomkesh eagerly.
With a smile, Byomkesh began. ‘Do not take it amiss, Barada-babu, but I
was always a disbeliever when it came to ghosts and spirits. I am not
getting into the question of their existence; but I suspected from the
beginning that the creature appearing in Kailash-babu’s presence was not a
spirit but a flesh and blood human being. I am a mere materialist, I deal in
material objects; therefore, I always keep extra-sensory matters out of my
calculations.
‘Now let us assume that the ghost is in fact a human being. The question
that naturally arises is: who is he and why would he behave thus? Why
would a person frighten everyone who lives here by pretending to be a
ghost? The only answer is that he wished to drive everyone away. Think
about it, there cannot possibly be any other reasonable explanation.
‘Very well. Now the question is—why does he wish to drive them away?
Surely he has some motive in doing this. What is that motive?
 ‘As all of you are aware, not a trace of Baikuntha-babu’s valuable jewels
was found after his death. The police suspect that he stashed them in a
wooden box, which the murderer took after killing him. But I was unable to
accept this contention without question. What little I have learnt of Miser
Baikuntha’s personality does not suggest that he was the kind of person to
hoard his valuables in a simple wooden box. No one knew where he
actually kept them. And yet, they were definitely in this very room. The
question, then, is—where?
‘But let us abandon this question for the moment. The only logical
explanation for this nuisance of ghosts was that Baikuntha-babu’s assailant
knew where the valuables were hidden, but had not yet had the opportunity
to take them away. Therefore he was trying to drive away the new
inhabitants of this house, so that he could take away the riches without
impediments.
‘It is clear, then, that the ghost is actually Baikuntha-babu’s murderer.
‘When I interrogated Baikuntha-babu’s daughter, two inconsistencies
occurred to me from her responses. First, she had heard nothing that night.
This seemed impossible. Despite occupying the room beneath this one, she
heard nothing of the frantic struggle that took place when her father was
strangled to death. The assailant had extracted information from the victim
about the whereabouts of the jewels as he was choking him—in other
words, they had had a conversation. Baikuntha-babu may have screamed
too—yet his daughter heard nothing. Is this possible?
‘Secondly, she is unwilling to perform the last rites for her departed
father in Gaya to ensure salvation for his soul. The truth is that she knows
that her father has not in fact become a spirit haunting his former home,
which is why she was confident. Indeed, she was probably aware of the
identity of this so-called spirit. There is no other explanation for a scarcely
educated woman’s refusing to perform her father’s last rites.
‘There is room for different kinds of speculation about Baikuntha-babu’s
daughter—we do not need to delve into each of them. But the primary one
among them is that she knows who committed the murder, and that she is
trying to protect the assailant. Who is closer to a woman than even her
father? An answer is unnecessary. I had learnt the very first day that
Baikuntha-babu’s daughter is chaste of character. Therefore it could not
have been anyone but her husband.
‘I had gathered one more indication early on that Baikuntha-babu’s son-
in-law was the murderer. The ghost was fifteen feet tall, and able to peep
through a first-floor window with ease. How could this be possible for an
ordinary person? He had not employed a ladder either—it would have been
impossible to disappear so quickly while carrying one. Well then? The
answer—stilts. I am sure you know what they are. A pair of long sticks,
with whose help dacoits would traverse thirty or forty miles to rob a distant
house and return home, all in the space of a single night. At present, many
circuses have performers who use stilts for their performance. No one can
use stilts without regular practice. Therefore the assumption that the
murderer might be a circus performer cannot be dismissed out of hand.
Baikuntha-babu’s prodigal son-in-law is part of a circus troupe; he must be
an adept performer too—therefore the assumption is automatically
strengthened.
‘But everyone knows the son-in-law isn’t here—he has been missing for
eight years.
‘Searching the garden the other day, I discovered this piece of paper in
the refuse. A tattered old circus handbill, the picture of the lion on it not
quite obliterated. A few handwritten words were visible on its back. It
appeared as though someone had written a note on the back of the handbill
because no other paper was available. The words were incoherent, but they
seemed to yield a meaning—a penurious husband was seeking money from
his wife. Ajit, the word you had interpreted as “bad” was actually “band”—
a fragment of “husband”.
‘Evidently, a desperately bankrupt husband had written from a distant
land to his wife. Needless to add, he had not received any financial
assistance. It can scarcely be believed that Baikuntha-babu would offer
monetary help to the scoundrel who had deserted his wife.
‘All this had transpired some twelve months ago. There has not been a
circus party in this town in the past two years; therefore it must be
concluded that the husband had written this letter from a distant land and
that he was with the circus at the time—using the back of a handbill in the
absence of paper.
‘A few months later, the husband arrived at Munger. I do not know how
he had come into some money meanwhile; he proceeded to live here in the
guise of someone seeking to restore his health. No one knew him in Munger
—he was from Jessore and his wedding had taken place in Nabadwip—
which was why he had no fear of being found out as Baikuntha-babu’s son-
in-law.
‘Baikuntha-babu had possibly never become aware of his son-in-law’s
arrival—he remained quite unperturbed. But the son-in-law made
clandestine enquiries and formulated a plan; since the father-in-law would
not part with his riches voluntarily, he resolved to extract his legacy by
force.
‘Then he went to his father-in-law’s house that night on stilts, arriving
directly in this father-in-law’s bedroom through the window. The father-in-
law was rather disturbed at this unexpected appearance, but the son-in-law
was adamant. First he discovered the location of the jewels by strangling his
father-in-law, then he killed him altogether. Baikuntha-babu’s survival
would have proved troublesome, which was why he had come prepared to
murder him.
‘But he did not have the opportunity to spirit away the treasure. His wife
had woken up downstairs, and was now knocking on the door.
‘The son-in-law fled quickly for the night with only a single gem in his
possession. The rest remained where they were.
‘Baikuntha-babu had hidden his jewels in a strange location—inside the
walls of his room. Scraping off the surface of the wall and gouging a small
hole in it, he would place a gem within it and refill the hole with lime. His
paan-box contained enough lime for the purpose, making the task easy.
‘Before extracting one of the jewels from the wall, the son-in-law quickly
refilled the hole with lime. But in his haste, he could not do a smooth job of
it, leaving his thumbprint behind.
 ‘At first, I had also wondered where Baikuntha-babu had hidden his
jewels. When I noticed the fingerprint the other day while examining the
room, it all became clear to me in an instant. Jewels worth some two-and-a-
half lakh rupees are concealed all over this room behind a layer of lime.
They are hidden in a manner that will escape all but the most intense
scrutiny. You will have to work hard to extricate these fifty-and-odd jewels,
Shashanka. I do not have enough time, else I would have done it myself.
Still, I have marked the spots with a pencil, so it should not prove difficult.
‘So we are apprised of the fact that the son-in-law decamped with a
single gem after murdering the father-in-law. And that he is engaged in
attempts to seize the rest. But who is this son-in-law? He is certain to be an
inhabitant of this town, and possibly familiar to us. We do have his
fingerprint, but that alone cannot enable us to identify him amongst a town
full of people. What is the way out, then?
‘I got an opportunity at the planchette table the other evening. A ghost
appeared at the table. I realized that one of us was shaking the table, and it
had to be the murderer; the ghost’s testimony was sufficient proof. I
examined everyone’s palms on a pretext. The fingerprint matched Shailen-
babu’s.
‘Therefore there remained no further doubt that Shailen-babu was the
murderer. Possibly none of you doubts it any more either. It had become
rather simple for Shailen-babu to achieve his objective by becoming
Barada-babu’s disciple. The man appears innocent and honey-tongued on
the surface, but he is as ferocious and cruel as a tiger within. There is no
room for compassion in his heart.’
Byomkesh stopped. Everyone was silent. Eventually Amulya-babu said,
exhaling loudly, ‘Ah, I’m relieved. Apart from everything else, Byomkesh-
babu, you have extricated us from Barada’s ghosts. The way he was going
on, I would have soon become a believer too; you have exorcized Barada’s
ghost, a million thanks for that.’
Everyone laughed. Barada-babu muttered something; Amulya-babu
asked, ‘What’s that you’re mumbling? It sounded like Sanskrit.’
 ‘Mouktikangnagajegaje,’ replied Barada-babu. ‘Not finding the pearl on
a single elephant’s head does not mean it does not exist.’
‘I have never searched the head of an elephant,’ responded Amulya-babu,
‘but all of us know perfectly well what lies in yours.’
‘My seventeen minutes have passed,’ said Byomkesh, rising to his feet. ‘I
shall take your leave now. I have said goodbye to Tarashankar-babu already
—his is a generous soul. Convey my respectful greetings to him once more.
Come along, Ajit.’
 The Death of Amrito

The village was named Baghmari. It was situated just by the railway line,
but to reach the village one had to walk about a mile from the station.
Between the two lay a dense forest. The villagers did not usually enter the
forest when going to and from the station—they slipped under the barbed
wire protecting the railway line and walked along the tracks instead.
The station was named Santalgola. It was quite a large station, and a
small town had sprung up around it. The area was rich in paddy. Both paddy
and rice were exported from the region. There were a couple of rice mills
too.
During the war, a company of American soldiers had camped for some
time in the forest between Santalgola and Baghmari; they used to wander
about bare-bodied, dressed only in trousers, and share a smoke with the
farmers. They returned home after the war, leaving behind several
illegitimate children and some small arms.
The assignment on which Byomkesh and I were in Santalgola for some
length of time was related to the abovementioned arms, details of which I
shall disclose at the appropriate time. The story I am relating at present is
set primarily in the village of Baghmari, and the individuals from whom I
had heard the early parts of this tale were all young men from the village. In
order to sacrifice verbosity, I am writing their testimonies in abridged form.
Of the handful of full-fledged houses in Bagmari village, Sadananda
Sur’s was the oldest. It comprised about three rooms, a paved courtyard in
front, and another yard at the back with a wall running around it. The jungle
began immediately behind the house.
 Sadananda Sur was getting on in years, but since he had no family or
wife or children, he lived all by himself in his ancestral home. He did have
a solitary sister who was married to a railway employee, but they were
townspeople to whom Sadananda-babu enjoyed no particular proximity. His
relationship with other people in the village was not very close; while there
was no antagonism with anyone, there was no intimacy either. On most
days he awoke early and went to the station-town, returning to the village in
the evening. Nobody knew what exactly he did for a living. Some said he
was a broker dealing in paddy and rice; others said he ran a pawnshop. In
sum, he was rather a secretive and thrifty person, which was about all that
people knew about him.
One April morning, Sadananda left his home early; bringing a medium-
sized trunk and a canvas bag out of the house, he locked the door. Then,
holding one in each hand, he proceeded on his journey.
There was a clearing in front of the house, almost a field. As Sadananda
was on his way towards the railway lines after walking across the field, he
ran into Hiru, the village headman of advancing years. ‘Where are we off to
with all those boxes first thing in the morning?’
‘I’m going away for a few days,’ answered Sadananda.
‘Ah,’ responded Hiru. ‘Pilgrimage?’
Sadananda merely smiled.
‘Already thinking of atoning for your sins?’ remarked Hiru. ‘How old are
you?’
‘Forty-five.’ Sadananda continued on his way.
‘When will you be back?’ Hiru called behind him.
‘In a week or so.’
Sadananda left.
His sudden pilgrimage became a minor subject of discussion in the
village. No one had suspected his soul of yearning for religious rituals. He
had not spent a single night outside the village in the past ten years.
Everyone assumed that Sadananda Sur, who usually went about his
business without drawing attention to himself, was travelling on some
secret purpose.
 Three or four days later, the young men of the village were huddled in the
field opposite Sadananda’s house. The village was home to some twenty-
five or thirty respectable families; after sunset, the local young men
gathered here for a chat, some of them sang songs, others smoked. Barring
winter and the monsoon, this was where they always congregated.
Today, everyone was teasing a young man named Amrito. Somewhat
eccentric in nature, Amrito was the orphaned nephew of one of the
inhabitants of the village. Absurdly thin and lanky, he was rather garrulous,
and forever trying to prove his courage and intelligence. Therefore, he
became the butt of everyone’s jokes whenever they found an opportunity.
It had begun that morning. A young man named Nadu had got married
recently; his wife’s name was Papia. She was on her way to fetch water
from the pond, carrying a pitcher; other young women were present too.
Amrito was skipping stones on the water; when he saw Nadu’s wife, on an
impulse he imitated the cry of the papia—the Indian nightingale—‘Piu piu,
pia pia papia …’
The young women giggled. Humiliated, the bride returned home at once
and reported the incident to her husband. Flying into a rage, Nadu came
running with a stick, whereupon Amrito promptly scaled a coconut tree at
the edge of the water. The village elders arrived to restore peace. Everyone
—even the stubborn Nadu—knew that Amrito had no evil intentions.
Things didn’t get out of hand.
But Amrito was not spared gibes and taunts by his friends. Everyone
gathered around him as soon as he arrived at the evening haunt.
‘You’re such a brave man,’ jeered Patal, ‘but you couldn’t fight with
Nadu. You had to escape into a coconut tree!’
‘Hmmph!’ countered Amrito. ‘I climbed the tree for a coconut. I’m not
afraid of Nedo; if he didn’t have that stick I’d have tripped him so hard he’d
be groaning in bed right now.’
‘Wonderful!’ said Gopal. ‘You got a thrashing from your uncle when you
went home, didn’t you?’
‘Uncle didn’t thrash me, he loves me.’ Amrito shook his head. ‘But my
aunt boxed my ears—you’re an ass, she said.’
 Everyone chortled with glee. ‘Shame on you, such a coward,’ declared
Patal. ‘Imagine having your ears boxed by a woman.’
‘She’s an elder in the family, so I spared her,’ answered Amrito. ‘You
can’t act funny with me.’
‘Tell me, Amra, you’re not afraid of people, are you?’ said Dashu. ‘Now
tell the truth, what do you do when you see a ghost?’
‘… all over his clothes,’ quipped someone softly.
‘I have seen a ghost but I wasn’t afraid,’ said Amrito, looking fierce.’
‘You have? When? Where?’ Everyone spoke up at once.
‘Over there,’ responded Amrito, proudly pointing to the forest with his
thin arm.
‘When did you see it? What did you see?’
‘A ghost horse,’ answered Amrito in a solemn tone.
One or two of the listeners laughed. ‘You’re an ass yourself,’ said Gopal,
‘so no wonder you saw a ghost horse. When did you see it?’
‘The night before last.’ Amrito recounted the events of the night. ‘Our
calf Kailey had slipped out of its tether and run off from the cowshed. Go
check the forest, Amra, said Uncle. It was ten at night; but I’m not afraid of
anything, so off I went to the forest. I looked all over, but there was no calf
anywhere. The moonlight made the place look strange—suddenly I saw a
horse. The clatter of the hooves made me think I had found the calf; when I
turned to look, I saw a horse disappearing in a flash in the forest. A black
horse, with flames coming out of its nostrils. I went back praying. When
you pray, ghosts can’t do anything.’
‘Which way did the ghost horse come? And which way did it go?’ asked
Dashu.
‘It came from the direction of the village, towards the station.’
‘Was anyone riding the horse?’
‘I didn’t see all that.’
There was silence for some time. Amrito did not have enough
imagination to make up a ghost story. He must have seen a live horse. But
how would a horse appear in the forest? No one in the village owned a
horse. Even the American soldiers who had camped in the forest during the
war did not have horses. There was a horse-drawn coach or two in the
station-town, but why would those horses be cantering in the forest here at
night? Had Amrito mistaken the runaway calf for a horse, then?
‘I see, you mistook the calf for a ghost horse,’ Patal said at last.
Amrito shook his head vehemently. ‘Oh no, it was a horse. I saw a flesh-
and-blood ghost horse.’
‘Are you telling us you didn’t faint even after seeing a ghost horse?’
‘Why should I faint? I was praying.’
‘Well done. But you must have been praying because you were terrified.’
‘Not at all,’ Amrito blustered. ‘Who says I was terrified. I’m never
afraid.’
‘Look Amra, don’t brag,’ said Dashu. ‘Do you dare go into the forest
now?’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’ Amrito looked at the forest in some trepidation. By
that time night had set in and the moon had risen; the trees in the forest cast
thick black shadows. Pausing, Amrito said, ‘I can go if I want to, but why
should I? There isn’t a calf missing now.’
‘Maybe there isn’t,’ said Gopal. ‘But how can we be sure you weren’t
fibbing?’
‘Fibbing!’ Amrito jumped to his feet. ‘Me fib! Look Gopla, you don’t
know me …’
‘All right, help me know you. Let’s see you go into the forest alone. Then
we’ll know how brave you are.’
Amrito couldn’t take it any more. ‘I’m going in—this moment,’ he
announced confidently. ‘Do you think I’m scared?’
‘Take this piece of chalk,’ Patal called him back. ‘You needn’t go in too
deep—just as far as the large cotton tree behind Sadananda-da’s house.
Leave a mark on the trunk. That’ll prove you really did go in.’
Taking the chalk, Amrito asked with a slight tremor in his voice, ‘All of
you will be here, won’t you?’
‘We will.’
Amrito set off towards the forest. The further he advanced, the more he
dragged his feet. Still, eventually he did disappear behind Sadananda Sur’s
house.
The young men sitting in the field stared in silence at the forest under the
pale moonlight. One of them lit up. ‘Maybe he’s just lurking near
Sadananda-da’s house,’ another one sniggered.
Some time passed. All eyes were on the forest.
Suddenly there was the sound of a crack. It came from the forest. A
sound not unlike the breaking of a dry twig. The young men exchanged
startled glances.
Some more time passed. But Amrito did not return. The cotton tree which
was Amrito’s destination was no more than fifty or sixty yards away from
the spot where the young men had congregated. What was taking him so
long?
After another three or four minutes, Patal stood up. ‘Let’s go take a look.
What’s keeping Amra?’
They proceeded in a group along the route that Amrito had taken. ‘Do
you suppose he’s ridden off on the ghost horse?’ remarked one of them.
But Amrito had not fled. The cotton tree was about twenty-five yards
away from the back door of Sadananda Sur’s house. Something white lay in
the darkness pierced by the moonlight. They went closer to discover it was
… Amrito.
One of them lit a match. Amrito lay on his back, his shirt sodden with
blood at the chest.
Amrito had not died of fright; he had been shot dead.

Byomkesh and I were in Santalgola on an official investigation. While

salaried policemen were not favourably disposed towards Byomkesh, he
was highly regarded by the higher administration. Cases that the police had
given up on were sometimes passed on to him.
Many foreign soldiers had set up camp in different parts of the country
during the last world war; at the end of the war the foreigners left, and
Indians earned the right to rule themselves. When the nation raised its head
after the bloodbath of Independence, it discovered that the upper levels of
the lake may be clear, but malevolent crocodiles were swimming about in
its depths. The arms and ammunition that the soldiers had left behind had
become the teeth and claws of these crocodiles. Rail accidents, bomb
explosions, armed robberies … acts like these left the new administration
continually harassed.
Although the police did succeed in apprehending some of the
perpetrators, they had not unearthed the source of the bombs, pistols and
other weapons. It was not difficult to surmise that the weapons had been
stashed somewhere close to where the foreign soldiers had set up camp; but
apprehending the suppliers of these arms was proving difficult. Unless the
kingpins running the black market in illegal arms were caught, it would not
be possible to root out this menace.
After consultations with officials, Byomkesh had decided to make
Santalgola his first port of call. It was a small place, and could in no
circumstances be called a city. A row of living quarters for railway
employees stood near the station. A single paved road led from the station
in both directions, circling back upon itself to enclose an area of some nine
acres. This area held a few large warehouses, the police station, the post
office, a cooperative bank, the government rest house, and so on. The two
rice mills I have referred to already were situated at either end of the area
encircled by the road. Although most of the inhabitants were Bengalis, there
were not a small number of Hindustanis and Marwaris too.
We had set up base at the government rest house. Byomkesh had not
wanted to reveal who he was; the more anonymous you can remain in such
investigations, the better. But when we arrived we discovered that
Byomkesh’s identity and the reason for his arrival were open secrets.
Sukhamay Samanta, the local police inspector, had already been briefed by
his department, and Byomkesh’s fame had spread in every direction thanks
to his efforts.
Inspector Sukhamay’s countenance was exceedingly pleasant, but he was
in fact the embodiment of evil intentions. In public he assisted Byomkesh,
but in private he placed as many obstacles in Byomkesh’s path as he could.
Perhaps he did not approve of an outsider succeeding where the police had
failed.
Be that as it may, Byomkesh began his work despite the hindrances.
Realizing that anonymity was impossible, he started his investigations in
full view of everyone. Visiting the police station openly, he collected a list
of the principal inhabitants of the area. At the railway station, he struck up
an acquaintance with the stationmaster, the goods inspector, the ticket-
checker and others; he made enquiries about wealthy individuals at the
cooperative bank. But since everyone had come to know the purpose of his
visit, there was no progress despite everyone’s cooperation.
After four or five days of fruitless exploration, Byomkesh devised a
strategy. He wrote an anonymous letter to each of the well-off locals who
could be suspected. The substance of the letter: I have become aware of
your clandestine activities; we will meet shortly. I took the train to a
junction town a couple of stations away to post the letters.
We may have laid the bait, but there was no sign of the fish. Two or three
more days passed this way. Sleeping lazily through the day and taking
invigorating walks every morning and evening led to considerable
improvement in health, but there was no progress when it came to work.
Then, three young men from Baghmari appeared one morning.
As we savoured a most pleasing sensation at about eight in the morning
after consuming hot jalebis washed down with warm milk, the sight of three
faces peeping in at the door made Byomkesh step out and ask, ‘What do
you want?’
The rest house comprised two adjoining rooms, with a roofed veranda in
front. Having climbed up to the veranda, three young men were milling
about hesitantly. They smiled widely at the sight of Byomkesh. ‘Are you
Byomkesh-babu?’ one of them asked deferentially.
‘Yes,’ said Byomkesh.
The smiles stretched from ear to ear. ‘We’re from Baghmari village,’ one
of them announced.
‘Baghmari! Where’s that?’
‘Not far, just a mile away.’
 ‘Come in,’ said Byomkesh, leading them into the room. The furniture in
the rest house was standard issue—a chair, a desk, an easy chair, two beds,
and a coir mat on the floor. Two of the visitors settled down on the floor,
while the third perched on the desk. Stretching out in the easy chair,
Byomkesh said, ‘Now tell me why you are here.’
The young man who had taken the initiative to speak first was named
Patal. The other two were named Dashu and Gopal. ‘Haven’t you heard?’
asked Gopal. ‘Someone’s been murdered horribly in our village.’
‘What! When?’ Byomkesh sat up in his easy chair.
‘The night before last,’ Dashu and Gopal answered in unison.
‘The police was informed at once,’ Patal added. ‘Inspector Sukhamay
Samanta visited the spot yesterday at about nine in the morning. He took
the corpse away, but there’s been no news since then. We went to the police
station before coming to you—Inspector Sukhamay threw us out. The
corpse has apparently been sent to the police headquarters for a
postmortem. Aren’t you aware of any of this? But we were told you were
here to help the police.’
‘The inspector probably considered it unnecessary to inform me,’
Byomkesh replied dryly. ‘Never mind. Who has been killed, and by whom?
What was the murder weapon?’
‘The weapon was a gun. The person killed was a friend of ours—Amrito.
No one knows who the murderer is. We’re also partly responsible for
Amra’s death, Byomkesh-babu; this terrible outcome was a result of our
tomfoolery. That’s why we’ve turned to you. Inspector Sukhamay is a
nincompoop; we entreat you to find the murderer. We shall be indebted to
you forever.’
‘Shot dead!’ exclaimed Byomkesh. ‘Incredible! Tell me the whole story.’
The story that Patal, Dashu and Gopal now recounted, individually and
jointly, has already been told. They did not seem particularly distraught by
Amrito’s death, but his mysterious killing had aroused their interest. And
with Byomkesh at hand, their interest now acquired melodramatic
proportions.
 It took about two hours to recount the story of Amrito’s death; Byomkesh
intervened occasionally with questions for greater clarity. ‘It certainly is a
mysterious affair, and a gun to top it all. But it is not enough to merely
listen to your account. I must examine the spot of the murder.’
All of them grew animated. ‘Why don’t we go right now, Byomkesh-
babu?’ said Patal. ‘We’ll be honoured to have you visit our village.’
‘Not now,’ said Byomkesh, glancing at his watch. ‘Since two days have
gone by already, half a day more will not make any difference. We shall
visit your village at about five this evening.’
‘Very well, we’ll come and fetch you.’
They left.
Inspector Sukhamay arrived after some time. Wedging his considerable
girth into the chair, he said, ‘Those rascals from Baghmari came to you,
didn’t they? They came to me too. Young Bengalis carried away by all the
excitement—they won’t give it up in a hurry. Don’t pay them any attention,
I tell you, or they’ll make your life miserable.’
‘Oh no, why should I?’ answered Byomkesh. ‘You know them well, don’t
you? Are they good boys?’
‘Village boys spoilt rotten, with no work on their hands to do, that’s all,’
said Sukhamay-babu. ‘Living off whatever little their fathers have—half an
acre to grow rice on, or a couple of coconut trees.’
‘The victim was part of their group too, wasn’t he?’ asked Byomkesh.
‘Yes, he went one step better. Lived off his uncle, disgraceful behaviour.’
‘I’m told he was shot dead.’
‘So it seems, but nothing can be said for sure till investigations are
completed.’
‘Hmm. Do you suspect anyone?’
‘How can I? No one saw anything; they were all huddled together in the
field. But there’s one person I’m suspicious about. Amrito had insulted
Nadu’s wife that very morning. Nadu is a hot-headed mule; he chased
Amrito with a stick. He wasn’t present at the evening session either. I must
have him brought to the police station and softened up. But never mind all
this nonsense now. I’m here to give you some important news.’ Suddenly
lowering his voice, he said, ‘You must have heard of Jamnadas Gangaram,
one of the biggest dealers hereabouts. He’s received an anonymous letter.’
‘An anonymous letter!’ exclaimed Byomkesh, displaying intense
curiosity. ‘What does it say?’
‘Jamnadas showed me the letter in secret,’ Sukhamay-babu said. ‘It came
in an envelope and all it said was: “I have become aware of your
clandestine activities; we will meet shortly.”’
‘Really! Then Jamnadas must be kept under watch.’
‘But of course. I’ve set a man on him. He’s watching Jamnadas round the
clock.’
‘Excellent! You’re a seasoned hand, you’ve got it right. The case might
be solved now.’
Modest self-satisfaction played over Sukhamay-babu’s face. ‘Hehe …
I’m an old hand at all this, Byomkesh-babu. Still, never mind all that. Have
you made any progress?’
‘None,’ replied Byomkesh, sounding disheartened. ‘I seek, I do not find.’
Although he did not get the allusion, Sadananda-babu pretended that he
had and chortled in his customary way. Prising himself out of the chair with
great effort, he said, ‘I’d better go now, I have a lot of work at the station.’
Byomkesh got to his feet too. ‘By the way, have you received Amrito’s
postmortem report?’
‘Not yet,’ answered Sukhamay-babu, raising his eyebrows. ‘In a day or
two, perhaps. But why?’
‘Show it to me when you do.’
‘I will if you want me to,’ said Sukhamay-babu, losing his good cheer.
‘But you’re here to catch the big fish, Byomkesh-babu, if you now turn to
the small fry too how will we survive?’
‘Oh no, I’m not doing that. It’s pure curiosity. As they say, the idle mind
is the devil’s workshop.’
The smile returned to Sukhamay-babu’s countenance. He noticed me for
the first time on his way out. ‘Ah Ajit-babu, how are you?’ he said. ‘Still
writing? Your cock-and-bull tales aren’t bad to read—hehe. But nothing like
Robert Blake. Goodbye.’
 When he had passed out of earshot, Byomkesh winked at me. ‘Hehe,’ he
said.

The young men escorted us to their village late that afternoon. We walked
along the railway line. When we arrived, every male inhabitant, down to the
last old man and little boy, had gathered by the line to welcome us.
Everyone’s eyes bulged with curiosity. They wanted to see for themselves
what kind of creature Byomkesh Bakshi was.
We entered the village as part of a procession. Patal stepped forward to
lead us to one of the buildings. It was half brick house, half hut. There were
two brick rooms in the front half, while the rest of the structure had a
thatched roof. This was the house of the dead Amrito’s uncle.
Amrito’s uncle Balaram-babu had made arrangements for tea on the
raised courtyard in front of the house. He welcomed us with a deferential
greeting. He appeared to be a simple sort, his manner of speaking betraying
both diffidence and stiffness. Although he did not seem overcome by grief
at his nephew’s death, he did appear flustered.
‘You didn’t have to,’ said Byomkesh, indicating the arrangements for tea.
Slurring his words, Balaram-babu said, ‘Just … some tea …’
‘It is a matter of great fortune for us that you have deigned to visit our
village,’ declared Patal. ‘You must have a cup of tea.’
‘All in good time,’ responded Byomkesh. ‘Let me explore the forest
first.’
‘Come with me, please.’
Patal led us away again. Some of the other young men joined us. The
unpaved path that ran past Balaram-babu’s house was the main road of the
village. It ended at the edge of an uneven field strewn with rocks. A single
brick structure stood on the other side—Sadananda Sur’s house. Behind it
began the forest. We went down to the field. ‘Is this where all of you had
gathered that evening?’
‘Yes sir.’
 ‘Where exactly were you sitting?’
‘Here …’ Patal went further into the field. ‘At this spot.’
The spot was relatively clean, free of weeds. ‘Take me along the route
that Amrito took into the forest,’ directed Byomkesh.
‘Come with me, please.’
A lock hung on Sadananda Sur’s door, the windows were closed. We
went around the house. At the back was a walled yard, the wall as tall as a
man, with a door set in it. The denseness of trees in the forest reached all
the way to the door.
We entered the forest at the back of the house. The trees had started
shedding their leaves, the branches were bare; the ground was covered with
a layer of wizened yellowing leaves. An enormous cotton tree stood twenty-
five or thirty yards behind the back door, its pillar-like trunk rising eleven
or twelve feet into the air before branching out in different directions.
Leading us to a spot beneath the tree, Patal pointed to the ground. ‘This is
where Amrito lay dead.’
The area was smothered in fallen leaves and cotton flowers, without the
slightest sign of an unnatural death having taken place. Still Byomkesh
searched the ground carefully. There were no marks on the hard surface—
all he found was a piece of chalk under the dry leaves. Holding it aloft,
Byomkesh said, ‘Amrito had brought this piece of chalk to make a mark on
the tree. But this tree has no mark. Therefore …’
‘Yes sir,’ said Patal, ‘even before he could …’
There was nothing more to see here. We turned back. On the way back
Byomkesh said, ‘Let me check whether Sadananda Sur’s back door is
closed.’
Pushing on the door, we discovered it was latched inside. There were
holes in the ancient planks on the door. Peeping through one we discovered
a small shrine inside, while the rest of the yard was overrun with weeds. A
guava tree grew in one corner. There was nothing else to catch our eye.
Byomkesh proceeded to walk back, skirting the wall, his eyes on the
ground. ‘What’s that?’ he said, suddenly pointing to something at the corner
of the wall.
 A half moon-shaped mark was clearly visible on the bare, dry earth;
around it were a few wavering, indistinct scratches. Byomkesh stooped to
examine the marks, as did we. Looking up, he observed the branches of the
guava tree that were visible across the wall.
‘What are you looking at?’ I asked. ‘What are those marks?’
‘What do you think?’ Byomkesh asked Patal.
Patal turned pale; licking his lips, he said, ‘They look like the hoofmarks
of a horse.’
‘Yes, the hoofmarks of the ghost horse,’ remarked Byomkesh. ‘So Amrito
was not lying.’
We walked back. Byomkesh’s brow remained furrowed with doubt. He
was confronted by a mystery, for he had as yet been unable to comprehend
the significance of the hoofmark. We barely exchanged a word or two on
the way back. ‘How long has Sadananda Sur been away?’ asked Byomkesh.
‘About seven or eight days,’ answered Patal.
‘Did he say when he’d be back?’
‘No.’
‘And no one knows where he has gone?’
‘No.’
Returning to Balaram-babu’s house, we took our seats. The crowd of
onlookers had thinned, but three or four eager individuals were still milling
about in the hope of catching a glimpse of Byomkesh. Balaram-babu
fetched tea and snacks for us. Patal, Dashu, Gopal and the other young men
hovered over us in supervision.
Over tea, Byomkesh began interrogating Balaram-babu.
‘Was Amrito your sister’s son? Not a cousin’s?’
‘My sister’s, yes.’
‘Are his parents dead?’
‘Yes. My sister was widowed when Amrito was a baby. She used to live
in my house. Then she died too. Amrito was five.’
‘You do not have children of your own?’
‘I have a daughter. She is married.’
‘How old was Amrito?’
 ‘Twenty-one.’
‘You did not arrange for his marriage?’
‘No. He was a bit soft in the head, so I didn’t.’
‘Did he have a job?’
‘Now and then, but he couldn’t stick to it. I had got him a job with
Bhagabati-babu, one of the biggest traders in Santalgola; he even worked
there for some time. Then he worked for a month or so at the Marwari
Badridas’ rice mill, but Badridas dismissed him as well. Of late he was
frequenting Bishu Mallik’s rice mill, but he hadn’t got a job.’
Byomkesh munched on a savoury for a few minutes, then suddenly asked
after a sip of tea, ‘Does anyone in the village own a horse?’
Balaram-babu’s eyes began to protrude, while the young men exchanged
glances. ‘No one in the village owns a horse,’ Balaram-babu answered
eventually.
‘Anyone have a gun-licence?’
‘No, sir.’
‘I’ve been told of a young man named Nadu, I don’t know what his full
name is. I’d like to ask him a question or two.’
Balaram-babu looked at the young men, who exchanged glances again.
Then Patal said, ‘Nadu left for his wife’s parents’ house with her yesterday.’
‘Where do they live?’
‘In Kailashpur. You have to take a train; it’s three or four stations from
Santalgola.’
Byomkesh finished his tea, lost in thought. Nadu may have been
innocent, but why had he fled? Was he afraid? Not surprising—who would
not be apprehensive if their name were dragged into a murder?
Suddenly one of the young men said, ‘There’s Sadananda-da.’
We turned our heads as one. A gentleman was approaching along the
road. Although he looked rustic, his attire was far from rustic; he was
dressed in a silk kurta and a warm shawl, with burnished shoes on his feet
and a canvas bag in his hand.
‘Have you seen how nattily Sadananda-da’s dressed?’ whispered one of
the young men to another. ‘He must have been to Calcutta.’
 As he was passing us, Patal called out, ‘Have you heard what’s happened,
Sadananda-da?’
Sadananda-babu stopped, observed Byomkesh and me, and asked,
‘What’s happened?’
‘Amra’s died,’ answered Patal.
‘Died!’ Unadulterated surprise surfaced in Sadananda-babu’s eyes. ‘Died
of what?’
‘He wasn’t ill,’ Patal told him. ‘He was shot dead. No one knows who
killed him.’
Sadananda-babu’s face turned to stone, he stared fixedly. ‘You’d better
go home now since you’ve only just arrived, you can hear the whole story
later,’ Patal said.
Sadananda-babu hesitated for a few moments before proceeding on his
way slowly.
After he had disappeared from sight, Byomkesh asked Patal, ‘Didn’t
Sadananda-babu have a canvas bag and a steel trunk when he left?’
‘You’re right,’ replied Patal, ‘that’s what Hiru the headman had said.
Where did he leave his trunk?’
No one had a suitable answer. Looking around him, Byomkesh rose to
his feet. ‘It’s getting on for evening, we’ll be on our way now. It would
have helped to have had a word with Sadananda-babu, but he’s only just
returned …’
Before Byomkesh could finish, a loud explosion shook us momentarily.
Then Byomkesh leapt on to the road and raced towards Sadananda Sur’s
house. We followed. That was where the sound had come from.
Arriving at Sadananda Sur’s house, we discovered that the main door had
collapsed on the front terrace, on which lay Sadananda Sur’s blood-soaked
body. The stench of gunpowder was spreading on the evening breeze.

Byomkesh and I climbed on the terrace, while those following us gathered

at one corner and stared in round-eyed silence.
 It was clear at a glance that Sadananda Sur was no longer alive. It was
true that his body was relatively untouched; his right hand still firmly
gripped the lock, and his left hand, the key. But his head had been almost
entirely severed from his body and twisted backwards, a mixture of blood
and grey matter oozing from his crushed skull, and one side of his face was
missing altogether. It was a gruesome sight. To think that someone who was
alive even three minutes ago was now in this condition made one tremble in
nervous trepidation—the limbs ran cold.
The villagers had been speechless all this while. Patal was the first to
regain his voice. ‘What’s going on in our village, Byomkesh-babu!’ he
asked, his voice shaking.
Byomkesh was examining a piece of welded iron near the shattered door
—he probably didn’t hear Patal. Tossing the piece of iron aside, he said,
‘Hand grenade! Where’s the canvas bag gone?’
The bag lay in shreds on one side. Going up to it, Byomkesh examined
its interiors. There were some garments, old and new. A new table clock had
been flattened by the explosion, while a bottle of hair-oil had been broken,
leaving the clothes sodden. There was nothing else.
‘Stay here, Ajit,’ Byomkesh told me. ‘I’ll take a quick look inside the
house.’
Not only had the panels of the door collapsed, the arch above the door
had also been blown off, leaving several bricks precariously suspended. I
couldn’t contain myself when Byomkesh entered through this opening on
slow footsteps. Who knew where in this accursed house a ghastly death was
lying in wait? If something were to happen to Byomkesh, how would I face
Satyabati?
‘I’m coming too,’ I said, taking my life in my hands and following him
in.
Turning his head, Byomkesh smiled. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of,’ he
said. ‘The threat is now gone, just like Sadananda Sur himself.’
It was getting dark meanwhile, and the light inside the house was dim.
‘Take a look at whatever you need to quickly. It’s getting dark,’ I said.
 There were two rooms in the front half of the house, while the kitchen
was at the back. None of the rooms held anything of interest. The room
whose door had been shattered contained only a broken bedstead; in the
next room, the mattress and pillows on another cot made it clear that this
was the master’s bedroom. There was nothing besides a few dirty clothes in
a cupboard set in the wall, its doors open.
The kitchen was in the same state. There were a few plates and glasses,
pots and pitchers, and cooking utensils. The clay oven was dirty too, ash
heaped inside it. ‘Sadananda Sur did not seem to have been particularly
well off,’ I observed.
‘Hmm,’ said Byomkesh. ‘Did you notice that door?’ He pointed at the
door.
I went up to it for a closer look. The kitchen door led into the backyard. It
was shut, but opened at a touch. ‘What!’ I exclaimed. ‘The door was open!’
‘Sadananda Sur hadn’t left it open,’ said Byomkesh. ‘He had latched it.
Check carefully.’
When I looked closely, I found the latch hanging on one side, but it was
barely a few inches long. ‘How can it be so small?’ I asked.
‘Don’t you see?’ answered Byomkesh. ‘The latch was of the regular size
and in place. Then someone parted the door from outside and sawed it open
to enter the room. There’s the rest of the latch.’ Byomkesh pointed to where
the remaining portion lay amidst the kindling next to the oven.
Although I understood some of it, the entire affair grew murkier. An
enemy of Sadananda Sur’s had sawed through the latch to enter the door in
his absence. And then? How did the bomb explode today? Who had made it
explode?
We stepped into the backyard through the open door. A draw-well was
located in one corner of the walled yard, and a guava tree in the other.
Byomkesh went directly to the tree and examined the soil beneath it.
Although I was unable to draw any conclusions from the faint scruff marks
on the ground, Byomkesh nodded. ‘Hmm, just as I suspected. This is where
the intruder jumped over the wall.’
 ‘Really?’ I asked. ‘But why did he have to jump over the wall? Why
didn’t he saw his way through the back door as well?’
‘If he had done that the back door would have stayed open, and someone
may have noticed,’ said Byomkesh. ‘That would have made things difficult
for the intruder. I misinterpreted the whole thing at the outset, else
Sadananda Sur would not have had to die.’
‘What did you misinterpret?’
‘I had suspected Sadananda Sur of being the person I was here to
apprehend. But I was wrong. Let us go. There’s nothing else to see in
Baghmari.’
We walked back through the kitchen to the front door. Meanwhile, the
entire village had gathered, huddling together beneath the terrace to stare at
the corpse. People’s curiosity about death is infinite.
Patal spoke up from the crowd. ‘What did you see in the house,
Byomkesh-babu? Did you find anyone?’
‘No,’ answered Byomkesh. ‘Have you informed the police?’
‘No,’ replied Patal. ‘Since you’re here …’
‘I’m no one, it’s the police you have to inform,’ declared Byomkesh. ‘But
never mind, you needn’t go; we were leaving in any case, we shall inform
Sukhamay-babu on our way.’
‘You’re leaving?’
‘Yes. Some of you must wait here till the police arrive.’
‘Will the police arrive tonight?’
‘They will.’
Once again we walked along the railway line. The moon was about to
break through the darkness. A goods train panted past us, dragging its long,
weighed-down body.
‘You appear to have unravelled part of the mystery, Byomkesh,’ I
remarked. ‘But I am completely in the dark.’
Byomkesh didn’t answer for some time. Then he said, ‘I’m sure you’ve
realized that there is a very close connection between the deaths of Amrito
and Sadananda Sur.’
‘Is there? What connection?’
 ‘Poor Amrito died unknowingly,’ Byomkesh sighed. ‘Had he not
wandered into the forest that night he would not have died. The person who
killed him had not intended to kill him.’
‘Then whom did he intend to kill?’
‘Sadananda Sur.’
‘But … Sadananda Sur wasn’t home at the time.’
‘It was because he was not that the assailant had come to kill him.’
‘This is all very mysterious. As the saying goes, presence of mind is
better than absence of body. Anyway, how did the bomb explode today?’
Lighting a cigarette, Bymokesh blew a smoke ring and asked, ‘Do you
know what a booby trap is?’
‘I’ve heard of the term,’ I replied.
‘Someone had wanted to murder Sadananda Sur. When he came to know
Sadananda Sur was away, he climbed over the wall one evening, sawed
through the latch and entered the house, then balanced a bomb over the
closed front door so that it would explode when the door was opened.
Sadananda Sur opened the door on his return today, and the bomb exploded
at once. Do you see now?’
‘I do. But who’s the man?’
‘I do not know his name yet. But he deals in black market for weapons
and rides to war on a black horse in the evening. I am also desirous of
knowing his name and whereabouts.’
When we reached Santalgola, the buzz of activity had quietened down,
with most of the shops having closed. The police station was open—
Sukhamay-babu was at his desk, poring over documents. Raising his eyes at
the sound of our footsteps, he asked, ‘Any news?’
‘Serious news,’ answered Byomkesh. ‘There’s been another murder at
Baghmari.’
‘Murder!’ Sukhamay jumped to his feet.
‘Yes. Do you know Sadananda Sur?’
‘I may have seen him, I can’t quite remember. Has Sadananda Sur been
murdered? And how did you find out before anyone else?’
‘I was at Baghmari.’
 The mask of geniality slipped from Sukhamay-babu’s face for a moment;
with a hostile look, he said, ‘You went to Baghmari. Despite my forbidding
you to.’
Byomkesh gave him a piercing glance. ‘Who are you to forbid me?’
‘I am the senior inspector of this area, the head of the police,’ Sukhamay-
babu retorted brusquely.
‘You could be the Lord Almighty of the police force for all I care, but
you are no one to issue orders to me,’ Byomkesh responded. ‘I am here on
behalf of the government, Inspector Samanta. You have been ordered to
cooperate with me in every possible way. But far from helping, you are
trying to hinder me at every step. But I am warning you, one more false
move from you and you shall be forced to abandon this area. You might
even have to abandon your job.’
Sukhamay-babu may have thrown his weight about earlier under the
impression that Byomkesh was harmless. But now, when he saw
Byomkesh’s real self, he shrank. His mask of affability returned in an
instant. Pouring his inherent servility into his voice, he said, ‘I lost my head.
Forgive me, Byomkesh-babu. I have a stomachache since this evening, I
don’t know what I’m saying. Me order you! How can you say such a thing.
I am your servant, at your beck and call. Hehe. So it is Sadananda Sur who
has been murdered?’
Byomkesh had not calmed down yet. ‘You did not investigate Amrito’s
murder the night that you were informed,’ he said. ‘You did not go to the
spot until the next morning. I am sure you are aware of what the outcome
would be were your superiors to be told of this.’
‘How do I explain, Byomkesh-babu,’ pleaded Sukhamay-babu in distress,
‘I had the colic that evening too, hehe, it was tearing me apart. Not going to
the murder spot would have been out of the question otherwise. Now
Sadananda Sur … I’m leaving at once. Come here, constable. Get them to
prepare my horse. And you get ready too. There’s been a big murder. We
have to go immediately.’
Since Sukhamay-babu was about to ride off, dressed for war, we left. The
police had to cover long distances in the countryside for their
investigations, which was probably why they were equipped with horses.

‘Let us walk up to the station,’ Byomkesh proposed after breakfast the next
morning. The last train had left at seven in the morning, the next one was
due in two hours. There was neither any crowd at the station, nor a ticket-
checker at the entrance. Everyone except the stationmaster Haribilash-babu
had probably taken the opportunity to retire to their respective quarters for a
cup of tea.
We had met Haribilash-babu already. His disposition was grave, and his
appearance suggested a permanently bad stomach. His statements were
measured, and he thought twice before uttering a word. Despite our
acquaintance, we had not conversed at length. When we began to stroll
aimlessly on the deserted platform, he emerged from his office to observe
us silently over the rims of his spectacles.
Byomkesh, of course, was not there to merely stroll on the platform; he
was there to gather information. However, he did not approach Haribilash-
babu. Extracting information from him and excavating the depths of a mine
for precious stones were equally arduous. But if anyone else were to arrive
instead …
We did not have to wait long. Monotosh the ticket-checker, who had
probably spotted us from his quarters, arrived on the platform, wiping his
face. He was a quick-witted young man with the gift of the gab. ‘What a to-
do. Imagine it all happening before your very eyes!’
‘I see you’ve heard,’ responded Byomkesh.
‘Of course we have. We heard even before the 10:17 had entered the
station last night. What was it that you saw? Did the bomb explode right
under your nose?’
‘Not exactly under my nose, but definitely under my ears,’ said
Byomkesh. ‘Did you know Sadananda Sur?’
‘Of course I did! He got off the 4:53, handed me his ticket and was
leaving with his bag when I said—I see you’ve been to Calcutta, dada; did
you see the sights? Laughing, he said, do you think Calcutta is for seeing
the sights? I saw the nights. He left, laughing. Who knew he wouldn’t be
alive half an hour later.’
After a moment’s thought Byomkesh asked, ‘Did you see Sadananda Sur
leaving?’
‘Of course I did,’ answered Monotosh. ‘Do you think anyone can leave
this station without my knowledge? It happened eight days ago; he showed
me his ticket and entered the station in the morning, leaving by the 7:03
Down.’
‘Was his ticket for Calcutta?’
‘Er, I don’t quite remember. But where else could it have been for?’
‘It could have been for a different station. Anyway. Can you tell me what
luggage he had?’
‘Luggage!’ Scratching his head, Monotosh said, ‘As far as I can
remember, he had a canvas bag in one hand and a steel trunk in the other.
But why?’
‘Sadananda-babu didn’t bring the trunk back. Which means he left it
somewhere. I see you knew him quite well. What kind of a person was he?’
‘I can’t say. I’m in the dark there. But he was a polite gentleman. He
never meddled in other people’s affairs, kept himself to himself. A month or
so ago he used to be a regular at the stationmaster’s office.’
‘Indeed. Why?’
‘I have no idea. No one but they can tell you what they used to whisper
over. Why don’t you ask the stationmaster?’
‘Yes, I think I will.’
We went up to Haribilash-babu’s cabin. ‘May we come in?’ asked
Byomkesh.
Haribilash-babu looked at us with raised eyebrows, his manner
suggesting he had no idea who we were. Then, putting his pen down with a
display of annoyance at being interrupted at his work, he said, ‘Very well,
come in.’
Entering, we took our seats. The stationmaster and we sat on opposite
sides of an enormous desk weighed down by countless notebooks and
documents. ‘You have probably heard that Sadananda Sur has died,’ said
Byomkesh.
Examining the question with deep suspicion, Haribilash-babu replied, ‘I
have.’
‘Did you know him?’ asked Byomkesh.
‘Slightly,’ responded Haribilash-babu, having pondered deeply over the
question, as though it were a matter of life or death.
‘Look, please do not assume that I am questioning you out of sheer
inquisitiveness,’ said Byomkesh a little testily. ‘Sadananda-babu died a
particularly horrifying death, and I am investigating this case on behalf of
the police. Now tell me how you came to be acquainted with Sadananda-
babu.’
Haribilash-babu’s face with its already sunken cheeks collapsed further.
After clearing his throat a couple of times, he began to speak rather
hesitantly. ‘Sadananda Sur’s brother-in-law Prankeshta Pal is a line-
inspector with the Railways. I knew him already. He was posted to this line
a few months ago; his headquarters are at Ramdihi Junction. It is his
responsibility to inspect the line, for which he travels up and down in a
trolley. He travels through Santalgola quite often in the course of his work,
which is how I happened to meet him. One day, Sadananda-babu arrived
while Prankeshta-babu and I were talking on the platform. Prankeshta-babu
introduced us, explaining the relationship between them. That was when I
came to be acquainted with Sadananda-babu.’
Byomkesh’s eyes narrowed as he listened; he asked, ‘How long ago did
this meeting take place?’
‘About two or three months ago.’
‘Prankeshta-babu was a regular on this line. When was he here last?’
‘Four or five days ago. He didn’t linger at the station; he went off on the
trolley on his inspection.’
‘Were the brothers-in-law on good terms with each other?’
‘I cannot speak for what lay within, but on the surface they were.’
‘Anyway. Sadananda Sur used to visit you thereafter. With what
objective?’
 After another bout of careful consideration in silence, Haribilash-babu
said, ‘Sadananda-babu was an agent, he used to deal in this and that.
Observing my dyspepsia, he was cajoling with me to try Ayurvedic
treatment. He had managed to sell me a couple of medicines too; ginger and
saltpetre. Useless.’
Oh dear, ginger and saltpetre! But Byomkesh persisted. ‘There was
nothing else that you discussed?’
‘No.’
‘I have troubled you needlessly,’ sighed Byomkesh, getting to his feet. ‘Is
Prankeshta-babu still posted at Ramdihi Junction?’
‘He is.’
‘Goodbye. Come, Ajit.’
‘Now what?’ I asked when we had left the station.
‘We must pay a visit to Prankeshta-babu at Ramdihi this evening. Even if
he has not heard of his brother-in-law’s death yet, he will have by then.
What did you make of Haribilash-babu?’
‘You can certainly judge this book by its cover,’ I said. ‘His intelligence
is as rusted as his appearance is termite-eaten. A double lock on an empty
chest. If you suspect him of selling arms and ammunition on the sly in the
black market, you can abandon that notion. Haribilash-babu’s only bullets
are his chunks of ginger, and his only gunpowder is his saltpetre.’
Byomkesh smiled. ‘Let us walk over to the market,’ he said.
‘Are you planning to buy something?’
‘Come and see.’
The hubbub had begun. Bullock carts jostled one another in the clearings
opposite each of the warehouses, a couple of horse-drawn wagons were
among them too. Cries of ‘one is one and two is two’ rose from each of the
warehouses. Heaped piles of rice were being weighed on scales.
A young Bengali was supervising the activities at one of the warehouses.
‘Isn’t this Nafar Kundu’s warehouse?’ Byomkesh asked, going up to him.
The young man probably recognized Byomkesh. ‘Yes sir,’ he answered
deferentially. ‘I’m his nephew.’
‘Excellent,’ said Byomkesh. ‘And where is Kundu-babu?’
 ‘Uncle isn’t here, sir, he’s gone out,’ he responded. ‘Did you need
something?’
‘Not especially. Where has he gone?’
‘He didn’t say, sir.’
‘Indeed. When did he leave?’
‘Last Tuesday evening.’
Byomkesh looked at me out of the corner of his eye. I remembered that it
was last Monday that I had been to Ramdihi station to post the anonymous
letters. The letters had arrived in due course on Tuesday. One of the
anonymous letters had been addressed to Nafar Kundu. Had the bird flown
the coop on receiving the letter, then? Was Nafar Kundu our unknown bird?
Be that as it may, his young nephew didn’t seem to be in the know; he was
answering all the questions innocently.
‘You probably do not know when he will be back, do you?’
‘No sir, he didn’t say.’
After some thought, Byomkesh asked, ‘Did Nafar-babu receive a letter
on the morning of the day on which he left?’
‘Like every day, he received three or four letters that day too.’
‘Hmm.’
About to leave, Byomkesh turned back. ‘How many horses do you have
here?’
‘Horses!’ said the young man in surprise.
‘Yes, horses. To pull the wagons.’ Byomkesh pointed to the adjoining
warehouse.
Getting the drift, the young man said, ‘Oh I see. No, we don’t have horse-
drawn wagons, we send our material on bullock carts.’
A uniformed constable arrived at this point, clicked his heels, saluted,
and said, ‘The inspector has requested your company.’
‘Coming,’ answered Byomkesh, frowning.
 6

The police station was close by. On our way there, Byomkesh said, ‘Did
you notice what a rogue Inspector Sukhamay is? He sent his constable in
full public view, so that no one is left in any doubt about my close
relationship with the police.’
‘Hmm. But why the summons?’
‘Amrito’s postmortem report has probably arrived.’
As soon as we set foot in the police station, the honey began to flow from
Inspector Sukhamay’s tongue. ‘Welcome, Byomkesh-babu, welcome, Ajit-
babu. Do sit down. Sit here on this chair, Byomkesh-babu. I was about to
call on you, but here you are instead. Hehe, here’s Amrito’s postmortem
report. I marvel at your acumen; you were absolutely right, he was indeed
killed by a bullet.’ He handed the doctor’s report to Byomkesh.
This Sukhamay-babu was a strange creature. We have all encountered
such creatures and enviously admired them, but we have been unable to
love them. They are to be found not just in the police department, but in all
walks of life.
‘I see the bullet was found in the body,’ said Byomkesh, having read the
report. ‘Where is it?’
‘Here you are!’ Extracting a small piece of lead from a numbered tin,
Sukhamay-babu handed it to Byomkesh.
Placing the bullet on his palm, Byomkesh-babu inspected it from some
time before asking Sukhamay, ‘What do you make of it?’
‘Well, it’s obviously a pistol or revolver bullet,’ answered Sukhamay-
babu. ‘Is there anything else to make of it?’
‘Of course there is,’ averred Byomkesh. ‘The bullet shows that it came
from a .38 Automatic, the kind that American soldiers used during the war.
Therefore …’ Byomkesh paused.
‘Therefore there is a link between the person who murdered Amrito and
the person you are hunting for,’ said Sukhamay-babu. ‘In fact, they may
even be the same person. Am I right?’
 ‘I’d better not say anything,’ responded Byomkesh, returning the bullet.
‘Your task is to apprehend Amrito’s murderer, which you shall pursue. My
task is different.’
‘Of course, of course. By the way, I’ve dispatched Sadananda Sur’s
corpse to the hospital. I will show you the report as soon as it arrives.’
‘There is no need to show me the report. This is your case too, I do not
wish to interfere. I’m in search of the big fish, I don’t care to waste my time
on small fry.’
‘But of course,’ declared Sukhamay-babu, his eyes radiating sly
amusement. ‘But Byomkesh-babu, when you draw the big fish into your
net, my small fry will be trapped too. I won’t have to cast my own net.
Hehehehe. Going already? Goodbye then.’
We left. Byomkesh looked at me and chuckled. There was no end to the
inspector’s cunning, and yet you couldn’t help being amused by his antics.
‘It’s not too hot yet, let’s visit the rice mills,’ suggested Byomkesh.
It took five minutes to walk down the road to Bishwanath Rice Mill. It
was quite a large mill, occupying some two acres of land, fenced in by
barbed wire. The first thing to catch the eye on entering through the front
gate, guarded by a Gurkha, was an enormous paved courtyard. Beyond the
courtyard lay a reservoir, with an engine-room on the left and a shed with a
corrugated roof for husking the paddy; on the right lay the warehouse, the
office and a row of rooms in which the owner lived. The morning’s
activities had begun, as a crackling sound from the paddy-husking shed
indicated. The labourers were busy at work, sacks were being loaded on and
unloaded from bullock carts and horse-drawn wagons.
The owner of the rice mill was named Bishwanath Mallik. Despite
gathering his name from the police station and sending him an anonymous
letter, we had not actually set eyes on him yet. Having sent a message
through the Gurkha, we entered the mill. Arriving at the office, we
discovered that Bishwanath-babu was not there; only a man with the
appearance of a clerk was seated on the traditional mattress from which
business was conducted, writing the books.
‘What do you want?’
 ‘Is Bishwanath-babu in? We’re here from the police.’
Alarmed, he quickly said, ‘Please come in, please take a seat. Sir is
supervising mill work, he’ll be here any moment. Should I send word to
him?’
We sat down on the mattress, which covered half the floor. To tell the
truth, such old-fashioned mattresses were far more comfortable than
modern sofas and chairs. Pulling a well-stuffed bolster towards himself,
Byomkesh said, ‘Oh no, there’s no need. I only have a couple of questions,
which you can answer just as well. You’re the bookkeeper, aren’t you?’
Rubbing his hands in deference, the man said, ‘Yes, I’m the chief
accountant here. Your servant’s name is Nilkantha Adhikari. And you are
Byomkesh Bakshi?’
Byomkesh nodded, smiling. Nilkantha gazed at him with eyes brimming
with devotion. There are people whose hearts melt at the mention of the
police. On top of that, when such people hear Byomkesh Bakshi’s name,
their emotions surge like the waters of a flood breaching a dam; they simply
cannot be contained. Nilkantha Adhikari was such a man. His expression
revealed that there was nothing he could not do for Byomkesh; he was
determined to answer questions, in fact, he would answer even without
being questioned.
‘You look like a capable man,’ said Byomkesh. ‘Do you look after
everything at the mill yourself?’
Rubbing his hands in glee, Byomkesh said, ‘Sir looks after things too. In
his absence the entire responsibility falls on me.’
‘Doesn’t Bishwanath-babu live here?’
‘He does. But when there isn’t too much work at the mill, he goes to
Calcutta for a few days. Sir’s family lives in Calcutta.’
‘I see. How long has it been since he went to Calcutta?’
‘About a month. There’s a lot of work now …’
‘Very well, never mind all that. Did you know the young man named
Amrito from Baghmari who died recently?’
‘Of course I did,’ answered Nilkantha eagerly. ‘Amrito used to visit sir
quite often in search of a job. But …’
 ‘Did you know Sadananda Sur too?’
‘I heard this morning that Sadananda-babu died last night in a bomb
explosion. I used to know him very well. He was a regular visitor here.’
‘With what objective?’
‘Objective? He was close to sir. He used to sit here sometimes, smoke a
little, chat with sir. No other objective. But …’ Nilkantha paused.
‘So he was a courtier. But what?’
‘He had borrowed some money from sir about ten days ago.’
‘Really! How much?’
‘Five hundred.’
‘Did he write a hand note when he borrowed the money?’
‘No. Sir used to trust Sadananda-babu; it was put down as a loan to him
in the books of accounts. The money’s probably gone.’ Nilkantha shook his
head regretfully.
Byomkesh began to ponder, his face resting in his palm. I had no idea
what he was musing on, but a little later, the neighing of a horse outside
shook him out of his reverie. ‘By the way, I spotted several horses here,’ he
said, raising his eyes. ‘Are they all yours?’
‘Yes, they’re all ours,’ Nilkantha responded with enthusiasm. ‘Sir loves
horses. We have nine of them.’
‘Indeed. What do all these horses do? Do they pull wagons?’
‘Of course they do. Besides, sir himself loves riding. He was a jockey
when he was young, you see …’
‘Nilkantha!’
From somewhere behind us, the sound landed like a whiplash on
Nilkantha’s mouth. He fell silent with a terrified expression, while both of
us turned our heads.
A man stood at the door. He was about forty years of age, short and slim,
with large eyes sitting on a gaunt face. Although his body, clad in shorts and
a half-sleeved shirt, had no deformities, his legs were curved like a bow.
There was no doubt that this was the owner of the mill, the former jockey
Bishwanath Mallik.
 Bishwanath Mallik was still staring at Nilkantha, without having cast a
single glance in our direction. Stepping into the room, he told Nilkantha as
sharply as before, ‘There’s a delivery to the station, look after it.’
Nilkantha galloped out of the room like a whipped horse.
Finally Bishwanath Mallik turned towards us. The gravity of ownership
dissipated slightly from his face, and the hint of a smile appeared.
‘Nilkantha talks too much,’ he said in an unruffled tone. ‘Was he telling you
stories about my being a jockey earlier?’
‘The subject of your being a jockey came up from a discussion on
horses,’ said Byomkesh defensively.
‘Everyone wants to bury their embarrassing past,’ smiled Bishwanath.
‘But I am not embarrassed. On the contrary, I regret having given up my
life as a jockey, for I may have been a Khim Singh or a Khade by now. But
never mind all that. You’re Byomkesh-babu, aren’t you? Are you here to
enquire into Sadananda Sur’s death? Come, let’s go to my chamber.’

Bishu Mallik’s private chamber was neatly furnished in modern style with a
desk and chairs. After we took our seats he fetched a tin of cigarettes from
his drawer.
Bishu Mallik may have been frail of build, but his conduct revealed a
confident personality. Nor was it difficult to perceive the alert and powerful
intelligence sparkling in his eyes. He lit his own cigarette after lighting
ours, then sat down behind his desk. ‘I know why you’re in Santalgola,
Byomkesh-babu,’ he said. ‘Possibly everyone here knows. Now tell me how
I can help you. Of course, Nilkantha has told you everything about me
already. If you consider me a suspect in the weapons case, you’re free to
search my mill, I have no objection.’
‘We’ll talk about searching later,’ smiled Byomkesh. ‘For now, please
satiate my personal curiosity on one point. Why did you give up a career as
a jockey to start a rice mill? So far as I know, being a jockey is lucrative.’
 ‘It’s lucrative, yes, but there are too many rules in the jockey’s life,
Byomkesh-babu,’ Bishu-babu answered. ‘You have to stay half-fed for fear
of gaining weight. There are other demands too. It wasn’t my cup of tea. I
opened this mill before the war with my savings. And now, touchwood, it’s
not doing too badly.’
‘But you couldn’t give up on your love for horses,’ responded Byomkesh.
‘I see you’ve got several horses here as well.’
‘Yes,’ answered Bishu-babu with fervour. ‘I love horses. No animal is as
intelligent and loyal. If man does have a genuine best friend, it’s the horse
and not the dog.’
‘That’s true,’ mused Byomkesh. ‘I prefer horses to dogs too. Horses come
in so many different colours—red, white, black. Although you see more of
red horses than white or black ones in our country. Take Santalgola—so
many horses here, but I’m yet to see a single one that’s black or white.’
‘You’re right,’ said Bishu-babu. ‘There isn’t a single white horse
hereabouts. But there is in fact a black one. It belongs to Badridas the
Marwari.’
‘Badridas? Who’s that?’
‘There’s another rice mill here, owned by Badridas Giridharilal. He has
several horses, one of which is black.’
Byomkesh stubbed his cigarette out in an ashtray. ‘So there is a black
horse hereabouts,’ he said disinterestedly, as though his curiosity had died.
‘Anyway, to get to the point. I’m not going to waste time asking for
information I’ve got from your employee already. You have heard about
Sadananda Sur’s death. Coincidentally, I was in Baghmari at the time. A
horrific death.’
‘I was told he died in a bomb explosion,’ said Bishu-babu. ‘Did you see
it?’
Briefly describing the manner of the death, Byomkesh added, ‘Now it is
not just Sadananda Sur’s death but also the matter of the bomb that has to
be investigated. You are an intelligent man; you can help me considerably
in this business.’
‘How may I be of assistance?’
 ‘You have lived here a long time, you know the ins and outs of this place.
You were here when the American soldiers were camping in this area. Can
you name the people who used to frequent their tents?’
Bishu-babu pondered for a few minutes, his eyes closed. Then he said, ‘I
cannot say whether anyone frequented the American soldiers’ camp, but
they were to be seen everywhere. They were extremely sociable, they even
visited my mill several times.’
‘Hmm. Did they try to sell their weapons to you?’
‘They did,’ Bishu-babu smiled grimly. ‘A sergeant had attempted to sell
me a pistol. I did not purchase it.’
‘You may not have, but someone else did. The question is, who was it?
Can you hazard a guess?’
‘Not at all. I would have informed you long ago if I could, Byomkesh-
babu.’
Byomkesh pondered in silence for a while. ‘Another thing. Where do you
think someone would hide lethal weapons in a small place like Santalgola?’
After some more thought behind closed eyes, Bishu-babu replied,
‘You’re convinced that the weapons are still in Santalgola. But that may not
be the case.’
‘Let us assume they are.’
‘Very well. But I have no idea about the size of the weapons, or the
number of guns and the number of bombs. How can I identify a hiding
place? If the police were to search every house, every depot and every rice
mill here, they might unearth them.’
Byomkesh shook his head. ‘How can that be possible? And even if it
were possible, consider this. The person who has done this is not foolish
enough to have hidden the arms where the police can find them easily. If the
man had been so imprudent, he would have been apprehended much
earlier.’
‘What do you think, then?’ enquired Bishu-babu eagerly. ‘Where could
he have hidden them?’
Byomkesh answered slowly after a pause, ‘He has hidden them
somewhere where no one is forbidden to go, yet where no one goes. Where,
even if the stash of arms is found, it cannot be proved who has put them
there.’
‘Meaning …?’ asked Bishu-babu, his eyes bulging.
‘Meaning that forest,’ answered Byomkesh, pointing though the open
window at the back. ‘It is not particularly difficult to bury pistols and hand
grenades amidst the bushes and bramble over there, but they will be
impossible to find. And even if you do unearth them, how will you prove
who had buried them?’
‘You’re right,’ responded Bishu-babu enthusiastically. ‘The possibility of
the forest had not occurred to me. They must be buried somewhere in
there.’
‘Of course, I may be mistaken too,’ said Byomkesh. ‘But whether I have
made a mistake needs to be examined.’
‘No, Byomkesh-babu, you’re right,’ declared Bishu-babu. ‘The forest
should be searched without further delay.’
‘That is indeed what we have to do,’ agreed Byomkesh. ‘But the forest is
not small, searching it will take time. It might need a lot of people too.
There’s no time today, but tomorrow …’
Byomkesh stopped. He had thrown caution to the winds all this time,
now he appeared to control himself; after a short, sharp look at Bishu-babu,
he said, ‘I have trusted you today with several pieces of information that
must not get out. I told you because you’re trustworthy. I hope you will not
betray my trust.’
‘You may rest assured that none of this shall escape my lips,’ responded
Bishu-babu. ‘Oh, are you leaving?’
‘Yes, we had better go now. I want to visit the Marwari—what did you
say his name was? Ah yes, Badridas—Badridas’ mill. Let me see if I can
extract some information from him. I have to visit Ramdihi this evening;
that is where Sadananda Sur’s brother-in-law lives. By the way, did
Sadananda Sur tell you why he needed the five hundred rupees he had
borrowed from you?’
‘He wanted to open an Ayurvedic medicine shop hereabouts,’ said Bishu-
babu. ‘But he didn’t have enough capital, which is why he asked me for a
loan. Although poor, he was a decent man, which was why I lent him the
money. I’m sure he would have returned the loan had he been alive, but …!
Never mind, I’m not losing sleep over such a small sum. I was only
wondering who killed a man as harmless as Sadananda-babu. And why?
Did he have a secret life then? Was his visible self not his real one?’
‘Perhaps,’ responded Byomkesh. ‘These things are not clear yet. Maybe
the meeting with his brother-in-law this evening will reveal details of his
real nature. Goodbye now, we shall meet again.’
Byomkesh came back from the door, going up to Bishu-babu to tell him
softly, ‘I forgot to ask you something. Have you received an anonymous
letter recently?’
Bishu-babu looked up, startled. ‘I have. How did you know?’
‘One or two others have got them too, so I thought you might have as
well. What does the anonymous letter say? Does it threaten you?’
‘Here you are,’ said Bishu-babu, opening his drawer to extract the letter
we had ourselves written.’
Byomkesh read the letter carefully before handing it back. ‘Hmm. Any
clue as to who the writer might be?’
‘None,’ replied Bishu-babu. ‘I have no secrets in my life that anyone can
exploit for profit.’
‘Do you have any enemies?’
‘Many. Everyone is an enemy of the businessman.’
‘Then one of them may have written this just to create mischief.
Goodbye. Many thanks.’
‘So you’re not searching my mill?’ Bishu-babu smiled.
‘Why waste time, Bishwanath-babu?’ Byomkesh smiled too.
‘And the forest?’
‘Not today—combing the forest will need a lot of preparation. Come,
Ajit, it’s getting hotter. We have to be getting back after a quick chat with
Badridas the Marwari.’
 8

But the conversation with Badridas the Marwari provided no joy.

There are usually two kinds of appearances among Marwaris. The first,
short and squat, like a duck; the second, tall and thin, like a crane. Badridas
belonged to the second group. The structure of his rice mill was like Bishu-
babu’s; the same floor for drying the rice, the same reservoir, the same
Gurkha doorman at the front gate. All rice mills in the world are probably
brothers when it comes to layout.
Badridas was between thirty-five and forty years of age. He was seated
on the mattress he conducted his business from, gathering information
about interest rates from the newspapers. When he caught sight of us and
learnt our identities, his eyes became uncommonly restless. He darted quick
glances into the corners of the room without looking in our direction. His
answers to Byomkesh’s questions were rather brief and unhelpful. It is not
necessary to reproduce the entire interrogation—a few samples are
sufficient.
‘Did you know Amrito?’
‘No.’
‘Did you know Sadananda Sur?’
‘No.’
‘Have you received an anonymous letter?’
‘No.’
‘Do you own a black horse?’
‘No.’
After some more questions and answers Byomkesh prepared to leave.
Pinning Badridas down with a searching look, he said, ‘I am leaving now,
but I shall be back. I shall bring a warrant to search your mill.’
A man of integrity, Badridas did not change his testimony. ‘No,’ he
replied.
We left in exasperation. Barely had we set foot outside the gate when a
gaunt individual—a Bengali—accosted us; baring teeth reddened with paan,
he said, ‘Are you Byomkesh-babu? Were you interrogating Badridas?’
 ‘How did you know?’ Byomkesh raised his eyebrows. ‘There was no else
in there.’
Displaying some more teeth, the man said, ‘I was hiding and heard
everything. Badridas was lying through his teeth. He knew Amrito, he knew
Sadananda Sur, he has received an anonymous letter, he even has a black
horse. Such a cunning Marwari, the devil in disguise.’
Sizing the man up, Byomkesh asked calmly, ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Rakhal Das. I work for the Marwari.’
‘Aren’t you afraid of losing your job?’
‘I’ve lost it already. Badridas has given notice, I’ll be released at the end
of the month.’
‘Why has he given notice?’
‘Someone from Badridas’ community has arrived. He’ll get my job.
Badridas won’t employ Bengalis.’
We began to walk away. The man followed us. ‘Don’t forget, Byomkesh-
babu, that Badridas is as wicked as they come. There’s nothing he’s not
capable of. Counterfeit, fraud, black market …’
Without looking back, Byomkesh waved him away.
At the rest house Byomkesh stretched out on the easy chair, looked at the
ceiling and said, possibly addressing god, ‘The great unknown have you
brought to me.’
Taking my shirt off, I sat down by the bed. ‘Now that you’ve met most of
them, have you made any sense of it all, Byomkesh?’ I asked.
‘I’ve made sense of all of it,’ he answered. ‘But that is of no use until I
identify beyond doubt the man behind all this.’
‘What’s all this about the black horse? What if Badridas does own a
black horse?’
Byomkesh answered, half to himself, ‘Something wrong. Badridas’ black
horse—something wrong.’
‘You think the murderer rode a black horse when he went to kill
Sadananda Sur? But why? How would it have helped to go on horseback?’
‘It would have helped, but it would have done him harm too. So I wonder
—never mind.’ He cocked his head towards me. ‘What did you think of
Bishwanath Mallik?’
‘He used to be a jockey, loves horses more than dogs; I can’t draw at any
other conclusions. But was it right to give him all that inside information?
What if the news about searching the forest gets out? Won’t the criminal be
forewarned?’
‘Hmm,’ answered Byomkesh distractedly. ‘But although I have warned
him, I believe he will not tell anyone.’
‘But what if it slips out!’
‘That is a cause for concern. Never mind. Nilkantha Adhikari seems a
simple soul too. Very loyal to his master, is he not?’
‘Yes. But what about Rakhal Das?’
‘A skunk. He was out to extract revenge because Badridas sacked him.’
‘But was he lying?’
‘No, everything he said was true.’
We rested after lunch. Byomkesh looked anxious and worried all the
while. I couldn’t quite understand the reason for his anxiety.
At four-thirty we left the rest house with the intention of visiting
Ramdihi. The train was at a quarter to five, it would reach Ramdihi at ten
past five. The chat with Prankeshta Pal would not take long.
We entered the platform after buying our tickets. Checking our tickets at
the gate, Monotosh grinned. ‘When will you be back?’
‘By ten o’ clock tonight,’ answered Byomkesh.
The passengers were gathered on the platform. The train was due to
arrive in about five minutes. Looking around, we discovered the corpulent
Inspector Sukhamay conversing furtively with the frail stationmaster
Haribilash-babu. Sukhamay-babu waved on spotting us, walking over
towards us presently. His eyes were alight with curiosity.
‘Going somewhere?’
‘To Ramdihi—we have some business there. You?’
‘I’m not going anywhere. I’m here to welcome someone. He’s coming on
this train. Hehe.’ His eyebrows danced.
‘Who is it?’ asked Byomkesh with some surprise.
 ‘His name is Nafar Kundu,’ answered Sukhamay-babu. ‘When one of the
sacks of rice he had dispatched by train burst after a jerk, two kilos of
opium were revealed. He’s on this train.’ He disappeared in the direction of
the stationmaster’s office, his eyebrows still twitching.
Byomkesh frowned at the square stone tiles on the platform. ‘Badridas is
here too,’ I said.
Byomkesh raised his eyes in a flash. Badridas was approaching from the
direction of the warehouse, walking towards us like a crane. It was clear
from his behaviour that he had seen us. But he left the platform on slow
footsteps without turning his eyes towards us.
Byomkesh’s frown deepened.
‘Bishu-babu’s here too,’ I said a minute later. ‘What’s going on?’
Dressed in jodhpur and breeches, Bishu-babu entered through the gate.
On spotting us, he advanced with a smile.
‘Hello. Going somewhere?’
‘To Ramdihi.’
‘Oho—Sadananda Sur’s brother-in-law.’
‘Yes, we’ll be back by ten. And you?’
‘I’m expecting a consignment, so I came to enquire about it. Let me
check if it’s arrived.’ Summoning a brief smile to his gaunt face, he went
towards the parcel office.
Meanwhile, we could see the steam from the train. The passenger train
arrived in a few moments. Before we boarded, we observed a middle-aged
man getting off a third-class compartment, surrounded by policemen. I
assumed this was the opium-lover Nafar Kundu. He must have gone into
hiding out of guilt on receiving the anonymous letter.
The train left after two or three minutes. The doubtful frown on
Byomkesh’s face was deepening by the second, as though he had suddenly
been confronted with a difficult problem and could not make up his mind.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. ‘You seem to be in a quandary.’
Before he could reply, the train screeched to a halt. Poking my neck
through the window, I realized that the train had stopped because it had not
received a green signal. The village of Baghmari was visible across the
barbed wire.
‘This is for the best,’ exclaimed Byomkesh, jumping to his feet as though
all problems had been solved. ‘I am getting off here, Ajit. You had better go
on to Ramdihi by yourself. Get everything out of Prankeshta-babu. Don’t
forget to check whether Sadananda-babu had left his trunk with him or not.
All right?’
The train had begun to move slowly after emitting a whistle. Byomkesh
jumped off. I looked out the window in bewilderment. Squeezing through
the barbed wire, he turned to wave before proceeding towards the village.

Byomkesh had never abandoned me like this in the past. The sky seemed to
have fallen on my head. How would I interrogate Prankeshta-babu? When
Byomkesh conducted his interrogations I enjoyed his technique, but I had
never done it myself. Who knew what kind of trouble I’d find myself in?
How difficult Byomkesh had made it for me!
The passenger train trundled along; although there was a station every
two or three miles along the way, we would soon be at Ramdihi. This was
all the time I would have to work things out in my head. The first thing to
consider was why Byomkesh wanted to interrogate Prankeshta-babu in the
first place. Prankeshta-babu was Sadananda Sur’s brother-in-law, and his
wife was probably Sadananda-babu’s legal heiress, since there was no one
else in Sadananda-babu’s near family … Had Sadananda-babu deposited his
trunk with his bother-in-law on his way to Calcutta? Was there anything
valuable in the trunk? Prankeshta-babu travelled on this route by trolley in
the course of work; it was not at all difficult for him to get off the trolley
and go to Baghmari. Did Byomkesh suspect then that Sadananda-babu had
been killed by his brother-in-law?…
When I reached Ramdihi Junction, it was no trouble at all to get
Prankeshta Pal’s address. He lived in one of the small cottages surrounded
by barbed wire fences near the station. There was a tiny garden in front; a
stout man in pantaloons and a sleeveless vest was tending to the garden
with a trowel—he stared at me flabbergasted when he caught sight of me.
‘Are you Prankeshta Pal?’ I asked.
The trowel slipped from his hands. His mouth fell open, and after a few
moments he nodded in bewilderment. ‘I’m here on behalf of the police,’ I
told him. ‘You must have heard that your brother-in-law Sadananda Sur has
died.’
He was so astonished by this that his pantaloons appeared ready to fall
off. Jumping in surprise, he disappeared inside the house, calling, ‘Sushila!
Sushila!’
I was no less astonished. Such behaviour was completely unexpected of
someone I had pictured in my mind as the slayer of his wife’s brother. He
had turned limp at the very mention of the police! Unless … all this was
just pretence. Hardened criminals resort to all kinds of subterfuge to pull the
wool over the eyes of the police—was that what Prankeshta-babu was up
to? And who was Sushila? Was she his wife?
Five minutes passed, without any sound emerging from within. Just as I
was wondering what to do—hail him, or turn back—Prankeshta-babu
became visible near the door. He seemed to have got a grip on himself; his
pantaloons were still where they were, but he had donned a bush-shirt over
his vest. ‘Please come in,’ he said, summoning a dying smile to his face.
I entered the drawing room. It was a small room, furnished with
inexpensive cane chairs and tables, with a curtained door leading to the rest
of the house. The imitation of Western style revealed an attempt at neatness.
I sat down with my back to the door leading into the house, while
Prankeshta-babu took a seat opposite me.
‘So you have been informed of your brother-in-law Sadananda-babu’s
death,’ I began.
‘Er … yes, yes,’ responded Prankeshta-babu, jumping out of his skin.
‘When did you learn of the death?’
‘Er … this morning.’
‘Who informed you?’
‘Um … Haribilash-babu had telephoned from Santalgola.’
 ‘Pardon me, is your wife—Sadananda-babu’s sister—here?’
Before he answered, Prankeshta-babu’s eyes left my face to dart to the
door behind me and return at once.
‘Yes, she is.’
I turned my head. The curtain, which was parted slightly, was replaced
instantly. It wasn’t difficult to realize that Prankeshta-babu’s wife Sushila
was lurking behind the curtain, directing him from the background.
‘Your wife must be devastated.’
Once again Prankeshta-babu darted a glance behind me.
‘Yes, absolutely, she is devastated.’
‘Your wife is Sadananda-babu’s heiress, isn’t she?’
‘Er … no, I don’t know. That is to say …’
‘Where you on cordial terms with Sadananda-babu?’
‘Oh yes, extremely cordial.’
‘Did you visit each other often?’
‘Yes indeed. That is to say …’
Once more his eyes darted towards the curtain. ‘That is to say … not
particularly often. Once in a blue moon …’
‘When did you see him last?’
‘Last? Um … I can’t quite recollect …’
‘Didn’t he visit you at home eleven or twelve days ago?’
‘Of course not.’ Prankeshta-babu’s eyes filled with fear.
‘Did he not deposit a steel trunk with you before leaving for Calcutta?’
Prankeshta-babu trembled all over. ‘Oh no, a steel trunk … But I don’t
…’
‘Why are you getting so nervous?’ I snapped.
‘Nervous! Of course not …’
Parting the curtain, Prankeshta-babu’s wife entered. Standing behind her
husband’s chair, she said resolutely, ‘My husband is nervous by nature, he
becomes even more nervous with strangers. Tell me what you wish to
know.’
I took a close look at her. She was about thirty-five, of firm build, with a
determined jaw and sharp eyes. Her expression held no sign of grief for her
brother. It took me no time at all to realize that she was a formidable
woman. I rose to my feet. ‘I have learnt all I wished to know, there’s
nothing more to ask. Goodbye.’ I was not up to interrogating Lady Sushila.
Returning to the station, I learnt there was no return train before nine o’
clock. To kill the interminable two-and-half hours till then, I drank tea at the
shop in the station, smoked my way through numerous cigarettes, and
reflected on Prankeshta-babu and his wife.
Prankeshta Pal may have been a nervous sort, but the reason for his
excessive anxiety in my presence was not just because of the state of his
nerves. There must have been other reasons too. What were they?
Prankeshta-babu had told me several lies on his wife’s instructions. For
instance? For instance, whether or not Sadananda Sur was on cordial terms
with Pranakeshta-babu, he did frequent his brother-in-law’s home. He had
deposited his steel trunk with his brother-in-law before leaving for Calcutta
eleven or twelve days ago. There must have been something valuable in the
trunk. What could it have been? Was it money? Jewellery? Weapons? It was
difficult to hazard a guess. But Lady Sushila may not have succeeded in
containing her curiosity about the contents of the trunk and may have
broken the lock. Nothing was impossible for a woman as formidable as she
was. But after that? Maybe what they had discovered in the trunk had made
it imperative to kill Sadananda Sur. Maybe the trunk contained a hand
grenade, which had been used to …
But no. However indomitable a woman Lady Sushila might be, would
she really murder her own brother? And it was completely impossible for
Pranakeshta Pal to have been involved in such an audacious crime … But
why had Haribilash-babu the stationmaster been in such a hurry to pass on
the bad news to his friend? Was it comradely empathy?…
I returned to Santalgola at nine o’ clock. The moon was up, the town and
marketplace were hushed. I had expected to find Byomkesh back at the rest
house. But he was nowhere to be seen. Where was he?
His cooking done, the servant at the rest house was nodding off on the
veranda. I told him to serve the food, cover it, and go home. He left.
 Dimming the lamp, I stretched myself out on the bed. The moonlight
filtered in through the window at the back … Where had Byomkesh
disappeared? He had got off the train all of a sudden. What had he been up
to in Baghmari all this time?
I had dropped off; I awoke to the sound of Byomkesh whispering in my
ear, ‘Wake up, Ajit, come and see this.’
‘What …?’ I said, sitting up with a start.
‘Shh! Quietly now!’ Taking my arm, Byomkesh led me off the bed
towards the window at the back; pointing outside, he asked, ‘Can you see
them?’
I hadn’t rubbed the sleep out of my eyes yet; Byomkesh’s behaviour had
made me expect an extraordinary sight. But I could only stare at what I saw.
In a clearing amidst weeds and bushes about fifteen or twenty feet away sat
six or seven dark-coloured beasts in a semicircle, looking up at the moon.
At first sight they had appeared to be black dogs. ‘Black dogs,’ I said. But
when they cried out in unison the very next moment, my doubts were
dispelled. A group of jackals was having its own musical soiree under the
moonlight.
Byomkesh burst into laughter at the expression on my face. Startled, the
jackals loped off. ‘What’s all this?’ I asked. ‘What’s the point of waking me
up to stare at jackals in the middle of the night?’
‘Have you ever seen jackals by moonlight?’ asked Byomkesh.
‘What happens when you see jackals by moonlight?’
‘You are blessed, the darkness of ignorance is dispelled. Now let us eat,
I’m famished.’
Turning the lamp up, we sat down to our dinner. I noticed that although
Byomkesh was dispatching the food to his mouth like a starving man, he
looked cheerful. ‘What are you looking so happy about?’ I enquired.
‘Where were you out so late? Were you in Baghmari?’
‘I was done at Baghmari by nine o’ clock,’ he replied. ‘After that …’
‘What business did you have at Baghmari?’
‘I had to meet Patal, Dashu and Gopal.’
‘I see, you won’t tell me. Very well then, and after that?’
 ‘Then I returned to Santalgola and paid Inspector Sukhamay a visit. That
took an hour. Then I went to the station. Haribilash-babu was not there; he
had to be roused from his bed. I had to make a long phone call. There are no
more than five people at the police station here, ten more will arrive in the
morning. I returned only after I had made all the arrangements.’
‘So you don’t need to know what Prankeshta-babu said?’ I asked.
‘Of course I do. Tell me all.’
I described everything down to the last detail. Byomkesh listened closely,
but displayed no interest. Washing his hands after the meal, he said, ‘In
every couple, if one is an idiot, the other is vicious. This is the rule of
nature.’
After we sat down, I asked, ‘What’s that in your pocket?’
Byomkesh was a little startled, even a little embarrassed. ‘A gun …
meaning, a pistol,’ he said.
‘Where did you get it?’
‘At the police station. This is Inspector Sukhamay’s pistol.’
‘Hmm. I see you don’t want to give explanations. Let’s go to bed then.’
‘You go to bed, I have to be awake all night. What if the person with the
hand grenade is afraid? It’s best to be careful.’
‘Then I shall stay up too.’
We passed the night in wakefulness. Fortunately there were no
disturbances. Over a cup of tea in the early hours of the morning,
Byomkesh’s tongue finally loosened, and I learnt the identity of our
unknown bird.

10

We went out at seven in the morning. Byomkesh wrapped a shawl around

himself to ensure that his pistol did not attract attention.
There was no flurry of activity in the shops or on the road yet. Only a
bullock cart or two, along with a horse-drawn carriage here and there, were
moving about. We entered Badridas the Marwari’s mill.
 He was sitting on his haunches outside his house, brushing his teeth, a jar
of water by his side. He did not notice us at first, but when we came closer,
his eyes began to roll like a trapped bird fluttering its wings desperately in a
cage; his rustic toothbrush made of a twig slipped from his fingers.
‘You’ll have to come with us, Sethji,’ said Byomkesh.
‘Wha … at!’ asked Badridas, half-rising from his position before falling
back.
‘We’re going to conduct a search,’ explained Byomkesh. ‘As an eminent
citizen hereabouts, we want you as a witness.’
‘Oh no …’ he protested, taking the jar of water and retreating rapidly
towards a specific destination.
We left again. It took about five minutes to reach Bishwanath Mallik’s
mill.
We met chief accountant Nilkantha Adhikari near the gate. ‘So early?’ he
enquired, deferentially touching his forehead with joined palms.
‘Where’s your master?’ queried Byomkesh.
‘In his room, having a cup of tea.’
‘Come, let us pay him a visit.’
‘Very well.’
Biswanath Mallik was seated at the table in his room, breakfasting on
bread and butter and a half-boiled egg; his jaws ceased their mastication at
our sight. An unnatural noise emerged from his throat: ‘Byomkesh-babu!’
‘We had no choice but to be here early in the morning,’ Byomkesh
informed him. ‘But there is no hurry, do finish your meal.’
‘What do you want?’ slurred Bishu-babu, pushing his egg away. His
gaunt face was slowly losing colour.
‘I had concluded yesterday that it would be pointless to search your mill,’
Byomkesh answered. ‘But today I feel otherwise.’
The veins on Bishu-babu’s temple began to throb—he appeared on the
verge of exploding. But he restrained himself with supreme effort, and an
expression resembling a smile appeared on his lips. ‘Why did you change
your mind suddenly?’ he asked.
 ‘I have my reasons,’ responded Byomkesh. ‘I did not go to Ramdihi last
evening, I was hidden near the cotton tree in that forest of yours. Three of
the village lads were with me. What we saw last night has compelled me to
change my mind, Bishwanath-babu.’
Bishwanatah-babu’s eyes flared for an instant. Lighting a cigarette with a
shaking hand, he lazily extracted a key-ring from his breast-pocket and
twirled it around his finger, asking, ‘And what if I do not allow my mill to
be searched?’
‘Your willingness is irrelevant,’ said Byomkesh. ‘I have a search
warrant.’
‘Let me see your warrant.’
As Byomkesh put his hand in his pocket, Bishu-babu attempted to unlock
his drawer in a flash with the key. When Byomkesh brought his hand out of
his pocket, it held a pistol. ‘Do not open the drawer,’ he said.
Bishu Mallik turned his head like a cornered wild cat; at the sight of the
pistol in Byomkesh’s hand he abandoned his attempt to open the drawer,
but a threatening hiss emerged from his throat.
‘Blow the whistle, Ajit,’ ordered Byomkesh.
I was prepared with the police whistle in my pocket—I blew it loudly.
Within a minute the room filled with Inspector Sukhamay Samanta and
his followers. ‘Arrest Bishwanath Mallik and handcuff him, Inspector
Samanta,’ instructed Byomkesh. ‘He has the key to the drawer, open it. Be
careful, the weapons are in there.’
Bishwanath Mallik could not be arrested easily—he bit and scratched
like a wild cat. It took five or six people to overcome him eventually and
clamp the handcuffs on his wrists. When the drawer was opened, it revealed
twenty-six .38 automatics, innumerable cartridges and fourteen hand
grenades. They were worth at least twenty thousand rupees in the black
market.
Surrounded by the police, Bishwanath Mallik pulsed with impotent rage.
Suddenly he said aggressively, ‘All right, I deal in stolen arms. But is there
any proof that I murdered Amrito and Sadananda Sur?’
 ‘The court will decide whether there is,’ answered Byomkesh calmly.
‘One of these pistols is the one with which you killed Amrito. The bullet
was found in Amrito’s body. It will not be difficult to prove in a ballistic
examination.’
Bishwanath Mallik’s eyes glazed over, striking himself on the forehead
with his handcuffs, he collapsed.

11

At three that afternoon, we were stretched out on two beds in the rest house
after lunch. Patal, Dashu and Gopal had departed after repeated acts of
homage to Byomkesh’s skills. Having dispatched the accused to
headquarters, Inspector Sukhamay Samanta was trying to prove to the other
policemen at the police station over a heaped plate of egg fritters that his
part in the apprehension of the suspected murderer was not insignificant.
After a brief lull in activities, the town was back to its usual bustle: one for
one and two for two. A pair of unknowns named Amrito and Sadananda Sur
may have faced untimely deaths, but the regular flow of life had not been
interrupted. It would not be, either, even if their assailant were to hang at
the gallows. One for one and two for two … rest in piece, both of you …
Looking at the ceiling, Byomkesh sighed; ‘I have no regrets over
Sadananda Sur’s death,’ he said, ‘but young Amrito died quite
unnecessarily.’
‘Tell me the whole story from the beginning,’ I said.
‘This story begins with Sadananda Sur,’ said Byomkesh. ‘Had it not been
for him, we would not have succeeded in apprehending the illegal arms
dealer. We can start with him.
‘From what I have understood of Sadananda Sur’s nature, he was
parsimonious and reticent. He did not enjoy revealing his secrets. His
finances were indifferent. He had paid for his sister’s wedding, but had
never married himself. An ancestral house and a little land; a little trading in
rice at Santalgola; a little money from selling Ayurvedic medicine—these
were his sources of income. Since he lived alone, he eked out a living
somehow.
‘But he was not free of earthly desires. It is true that the parsimonious
never like spending their own money to fulfil their wants, but no one can
claim they haven’t any. Sadananda-babu had the craving, but not the cash.
Perhaps he saved a few pennies from his small income, but his nature didn’t
allow him to spend them on pleasure for himself. The days went by this
way. He was getting older; his capacity for enjoyment was shrinking as
well. Perhaps he would have spent all his life unfulfilled this way. But
suddenly, at the age of forty-five, a big opportunity presented itself.
‘Sadananada-babu used to frequent Bishwanaath-babu’s mill. The vials
of Ayurvedic medicine found in Bishwanath Mallik’s safe must have been
supplied by Sadananda-babu. This was the route to their intimacy. Then
Sadananda-babu unexpectedly got to know the deepest secret of Bishu
Mallik’s life—his business of dealing in illegal arms. It is hard to say how
he came to know, perhaps he had found out where Bishu Mallik kept the
weapons hidden. The cotton tree was not very far from Sadananda-babu’s
home; maybe he had spotted Bishu Mallik there.
‘Sadananda-babu could have stolen the weapons and bombs, but that was
not the path he took. Sadananda-babu was not experienced enough to be
aware of how to sell weapons in the black market. He adopted a different
route. I want money, or I’ll expose you, he told Bishu Mallik. Simple
blackmail, in other words.
‘Bishu Mallik was helpless. He had to part with five hundred rupees.
Sadananda-babu went home with this money. His time for pleasure was
running out, he could delay no longer. He decided to visit Calcutta.
‘But he was circumspect by nature, not in favour of taking all the money
with himself. However, leaving it in his empty house meant risking theft.
So he decided on a different course of action.
‘Much of what I am telling you is conjecture, but not wild imagination.
Sadananda-babu put most of the money he had got in a steel trunk, added
whatever he had saved, perhaps even some jewellery of old that he might
have inherited. Then he left, the steel trunk in one hand and a canvas bag
for his own use in the other. He had planned to deposit the trunk with his
sister and brother-in-law at Ramdihi, and then go on his pleasure trip to
Calcutta.
‘Sadananda Sur went on his way, but meanwhile Bishu Mallik was in a
spot. He had been running his business without trouble all this time, but
now he was trapped. As long as Sadananda Sur was alive, there was no
deliverance for him, for Sadananda would continue his extortion. He
decided to get rid of Sadananda Sur; he was intelligent, and he was in
possession of lethal weapons. Getting rid of Sadananda would not prove
difficult.
‘Having deposited his trunk at his sister’s house, Sadananda was
probably having a good time in Calcutta when Bishu Mallik rode into the
forest on his horse after sunset one evening and took a grenade from his
cache in the cotton tree to booby-trap Sadananda’s house. As soon as
Sadananda tried to enter his house on his return from Calcutta, the grenade
would explode.
‘But some other things happened before Sadananda returned. Whenever
Bishu Mallik needed to sell some weapons, he would ride into the forest.
Around ten o’clock one night, Amrito spotted the horse while looking for
his calf. He mistook it for the ghost of a horse. When he re-entered the
forest on the instigation of his friends, he discovered not just the horse but
also its rider under the cotton tree.
‘Bishu Mallik was probably on his way back that night after having
booby-trapped Sadananda Sur’s house. They knew each other; Amrito had
applied to Bishu Mallik for a job. Bishu Mallik realized that when the
booby trap exploded, Amrito would testify to having seen Bishu Mallik
behind Sadananda Sur’s house that night. Amrito may even have spotted
him when he was jumping over the wall at the back of Sadananda’s house.
Therefore it was not safe to let Amrito live. Bishu Mallik had an automatic
pistol; murdering Amrito, he disappeared on horseback.
‘When I investigated the scene of the crime, what I found strangest was
the horse. Amrito had seen a ghost horse, but what I saw were the hoof
prints of a living beast. A horse was connected with this case. We still did
not know who the criminal was, but whoever he might be, he came into the
forest on horseback. Why?
‘Travelling on horseback was quick, but it attracted attention. A person
intent on committing a crime does not want to attract attention; why then
did this person enter the forest on horseback? There must be a reason. What
reason? Was it to jump over Sadananda Sur’s high back wall? It was easier
to jump over a wall off a horse’s back, and there was a guava tree on the
other side to help the descent. But was that all? Or was there more to it? I
received the answer last night. But more of that later.
‘Sadananda Sur returned home as planned. He had not brought the trunk
back—perhaps he had intended to visit his brother-in-law after a couple of
days’ rest to fetch the trunk. But this wish was not fulfilled. He died
practically before our eyes while trying to enter his own home.
‘After his death, it all became clear to me. The person I was here to
apprehend had murdered both Amrito and Sadananda Sur. Those who had
bought the weapons were outsiders, but the murderer was not an outsider;
both Amrito and Sadananda Sur knew him. Amrito had spotted him and
Sadananda Sur had started extorting money from him. Only two things
remained unknown—who was he? And why did he ride into the forest on a
black horse?
‘Amrito had said the black ghost horse had flames coming out of its
nostrils. It may have all been his fevered imagination. On the other hand, it
could have been partly true. Therefore it became necessary to investigate
the black horse.
‘Enquiries revealed that there was just one black horse in Santalgola,
which belonged to Badridas the Marwari. Was Badridas the culprit then? He
is as slippery as an eel; he is capable of selling adulterated rice, his
parochialism can be extreme; but he lacks the courage to kill even one, let
alone two, persons. Besides, to picture him riding a horse is utterly
impossible.
‘One outcome of my anonymous letter was that some people could be
removed from the list of suspects. Jamnadas Gangaram showed the letter to
the police, so it was not him. I had suspected Nafar Kundu at first, but he
turned out not to own a horse. No one would borrow a horse for a murder. I
eliminated Prankeshta Pal from the list at the outset. It was possible to take
a trolley to Baghmari, but since porters would also be travelling on the
trolley, it wouldn’t be easy to commit a murder without their knowledge. I
was only curious to know what Sadananda Sur’s trunk held.
‘At any rate, the list of suspects was pruned to just three—Badridas the
Marwari, Bishu Mallik and Inspector Sukhamay. I could not eliminate the
inspector, for he does possess a horse, though it is not black. And no one
would find it easier to run a business of this kind. It is always darkest under
the lamp.
‘But when I learnt that Bishu Mallik had been a jockey once, all my
suspicion centred on him. I came to know, moreover, that he had lent
Sadananda Sur five hundred rupees. It was in fact not a loan but a bribe. No
businessman would lend money without conditions to someone as insolvent
as Sadananda Sur.
‘I set a trap for Bishu Mallik, revealing everything on my mind and in my
heart to him. I had always thought it possible to keep the weapons hidden in
the forest. I had assumed they were buried somewhere in the ground near
the cotton tree. When Bishu Mallik heard we were planning to search the
forest, he began to worry. It was true that the weapons were concealed very
carefully indeed, but you never knew, the police might still unearth them.
Bishu Mallik would not be caught, but weapons worth a lot of money
would be confiscated. Bishu Mallik was overcome by greed.
‘When I was taking the train for Ramdihi last evening, Bishu Mallik
turned up to make sure I was indeed going. I had in fact not planned to go
all the way to Ramdihi; I had decided to get off at the next station and
return to Baghmari. But fate was on my side, for the train stopped next to
the village.
‘In the village I got hold of Patal, Dashu and Gopal and went into the
forest with them. It was impossible to search the entire forest, but I scoured
the area between the back wall of Sadananda Sur’s house—where the hoof
print had been found—and the roots of the cotton tree for signs of freshly-
dug earth. But I discovered nothing.
 ‘What next? Sunset was not far away. I planned my next move over a
cigarette. Let us go to Santalgola, I told the boys.
‘We walked through the forest to reach the edge of Santalgola. The forest
was nearly a hundred and fifty yards wide here; the station was at one side,
the cooperative bank on the other, and Bishu Mallik’s mill, halfway
between them. This was the back of the mill, with a small gate set in the
barbed wire fence. I explained my plan to Patal. They would climb into
trees spaced evenly apart at the edge of the forest and hide themselves,
keeping their eyes peeled for anyone entering the forest on horseback or on
foot. They would try to identify him, but in no circumstances must they try
to apprehend him.
‘Patal climbed a tree directly opposite Bishu Mallik’s mill, Dashu went
off towards the station and Gopal, towards the bank. There was a moon in
the sky that evening too; even at night no one would be able to enter the
forest without their noticing.
‘Once they had settled into their trees, I went back towards the cotton
tree. This tree had planted many a doubt in my mind. Amrito was killed
beneath it. If the key to this mystery lay anywhere near the forest, it had to
be somewhere near the tree.
‘When I returned to the tree the sun had set and the moon had risen. I
climbed into a shaggy treetop some twenty or twenty-five yards away. I
planned to wait there like a tiger hunter. I had no weapon, I was here only to
observe Mr Tiger. I did not know if he would come at all, but if he did, it
would certainly be before nine.
‘The cotton had shed most of its leaves, so that there was no shade
beneath the tree. The higher the moon rose, the brighter the light became.
Suddenly a cuckoo called out from a nearby tree. What a strange situation.
There I was, waiting for a glimpse of a vicious murderer, and here was a
cuckoo! How strange the world is!
‘Quite some time passed. Peering at my watch, I saw it was a quarter to
eight. At once I heard the sound of footsteps crunching on dry leaves.
Turning my head, I saw a horse emerging from the shadows at a stately
pace. A black horse. On its back sat a man dressed in black. I could not see
his face, but he was crouched like a jockey, casting wary glances around
him.
‘The horse made straight for the trunk of the cotton and stopped close to
it, as still as a statue. What I witnessed thereafter was a circus act. The
horseman sprang to his feet, standing on the horse. Then he reached into a
hole in the trunk. There was an opening like a cubbyhole about ten feet
from the ground, where the foliage began. A nest for some unknown bird.
‘Now do you see why the culprit visited the forest on horseback? The
weapons were not buried in the ground; they were in the cubbyhole ten feet
from it. The cotton trunk is covered with thick scaly thorns; people don’t
climb this tree, not even squirrels. No other hiding place could be so safe.
Of course, you could use a ladder to climb it, but who was going to set a
ladder there? And carrying a ladder into the forest would attract attention. A
horse was far safer, especially if it happened to have been trained by a
jockey.
‘Anyway, the rider had a bag in his left hand. Reaching into the hole with
his right hand, he transferred the weapons to the bag one by one. By then I
had recognized the rider—it was Bishu Mallik. Even without seeing his
face, there was no mistaking the short, slim figure and the bow legs. My
surmise was correct. But one more puzzle remained: where had Mallik
acquired a black horse? He was far too clever to have lied to me if he
indeed possessed one. As a matter of fact, he had not understood the
significance of my question when I had asked him about the black horse.
He had not even imagined that a black horse had anything to do with this
case. I unravelled the mystery of the black horse at the dead of night, after
returning home.
‘More of that later. Meanwhile, Bishu Mallik resumed his seat on the
horse, his bag now full, and cantered back. I dismounted from the tree after
he had disappeared into the shadows. The watch showed the time as a
quarter past eight. I set off towards the spot where Patal and the others were
hiding. My plan had worked out; since the police were to search the forest
the next day, Bishu Mallik had removed the weapons the night before. The
question now was: where would he stash them? It was not enough to nab
the criminal; we had to get the arms too. In fact, apprehending the person
without finding the weapons would be useless.
‘When I reached the edge of the forest, Patal and the others had not yet
dismounted; they did so on seeing me. All three were excited; they had
spotted the rider entering the forest and recognized him. Bishu Mallik had
emerged from the back gate of his rice mill on horseback, riding practically
past Patal’s tree into the forest. He had returned after forty minutes, riding
back into the mill through the same gate.
‘I asked: are you quite sure he went back through his own gate and not
anywhere else?
‘No, answered Patal, he didn’t go anywhere else.
‘I was relieved. Bishu Mallik would keep the weapons in the mill, at least
until the police had completed its search of the forest. I had told him in the
morning that we would not search the mill, which he had believed. Bishu
Mallik must have considered me a rather simple soul.
‘Clapping the boys on their backs, I told them: I have solved Amrito’s
murder thanks to you. But do not ask any more questions tonight, come
back tomorrow at nine in the morning, you will get to know everything. But
remember, not a word to anyone.
‘They went back to the village, and I, to the police station. Collecting a
pistol from Inspector Sukhamay I went to the railway station. When I
returned after making all the arrangements it was the middle of the night
and you were snoring your head off.
‘Without waking you, I went up to the window at the back. I saw some
animals outside. At first I thought they were black dogs, but then I realized
they were jackals, not dogs. At once the mystery of the black dog became
clear. Jackals are not black, they are brown. Yet they appeared black. The
horse was not black either, it was dark brown; chestnut, as they say. All dark
shades appear black from a distance in the moonlight. That was why Amrito
had seen a black ghost horse, and I had seen a black horse too. This is the
mystery of the black horse. I have no objection to calling it the joke of the
black horse either.
 ‘At the dinner table you recounted the story of Prankeshta Pal and his
wife. It is not difficult to see where they went wrong. Prankeshta Pal was
competent at his work, but his writ did not run large in his own home,
where his wife ruled. Sadananda-babu had indeed left his trunk with his
sister. It had not been broken open at first; but when his sister Sushila learnt
of his death, she did not hesitate any more. She broke the lock open and
seized whatever she found. Maybe she will eventually inherit her brother’s
assets anyway, but you can never tell with the law. It is wise to grab what is
at hand. This was sister Sushila’s psychology. But Prankeshta Pal is a man
who knows right from wrong, which is why he became nervous in your
presence …
‘And then? There is nothing more to tell. Now it is time for Vedvyas to
rest. Who knows how many more great men like Bishu Mallik are
meditating in silence in the wonder that is India!’
With a gigantic yawn, Byomkesh turned on his side. ‘It is almost dawn,’
he said. ‘Get some sleep while you can, we are returning to Calcutta
tonight. Hehe.’
 Translator’s Note

He’s not like your dad, or even your granddad. He’d be older than either of
them now, though he might still be a detective. Or, as he liked to call
himself, a seeker of truth. Because, to Byomkesh Bakshi, gentleman
detective, the truth was not about discovering who had committed the
crime. It was about finding out who the evil person was and ensuring that
they were punished. No wonder the police didn’t like him much. Not only
did Byomkesh show them up as bumbling idiots time and again, he even let
murderers go free sometimes if he felt that the murdered person had been
the real villain of the piece.
Translating these Byomkesh Bakshi stories, then, is like translating them
thrice over. The first translation is straightforward: telling the story in
English instead of Bengali. Which means transferring the storyteller’s
descriptions, analysis and confusion—the stories are told by Byomkesh’s
dim (compared to him, anyhow) sidekick Ajit—from Bengali to English.
But wait a minute, it’s not that simple. Because the Bengali used in the
original was a very formal, often ornate, sort of language, with long
sentences and the use of what was called shadhu bhasha—or a classical
form of Bengali which was used only in books and not how people actually
spoke.
Don’t forget, this is the period between the 1930s and the 1950s we’re
talking about. Roughly when your grandparents were growing up, and your
parents probably weren’t born. So, they used a slightly bizarre—by today’s
standards, that is—form of the language when they wrote their books.
(They spoke just the same as other people, though.) That’s the second
translation then, across something like seventy years, give or take ten. If
Byomkesh and Ajit decided to speak in English back then, it might not have
been exactly how they sound here in these stories. We modernized things
just a little bit.
That’s not all. Because of the distance caused by the years and by the
geography, you might have found some references in the stories quite
impossible to understand. We’ve converted all of them to expressions and
relationships that make sense today. Just about the only things left
unchanged are some of the ways in which people addressed each other
formally—such as adding a ‘babu’ at the end of someone’s name, for
instance. Don’t be misled by the formality, though—Byomkesh continued
to use the word, perhaps in mock respect, even after he knew who the
murderer was.
So, what’s the third translation? It’s not in the words you read, it’s in your
head. When you read these stories, you mustn’t think of Byomkesh and Ajit
—or the criminals they’re chasing—living next door. Because Calcutta—
and every other place in the country, for that matter—looked very different
then. If at all possible, check the family album for photographs going back
to the 1950s, or even earlier, to see what the city was like, how the streets
appeared, what kind of clothes people wore. Or, just get on to the Net and
surf along to [Link] You’ll find some interesting
photographs. And you’ll know why you have to translate the pictures in
your head from your present to the time your grandparents were about your
age.
Oh yes, a lot has changed from the time these stories were written. But
what hasn’t is the nature of crime. Just like they do now, back then, too,
twisted people had no compunctions stealing, robbing, and even killing if
necessary to feed their own greed. Hence, if Byomkesh Bakshi were to get
into a time travel machine and visit us here and now, he’d find that while a
lot of other things have changed, crime and criminals haven’t. And he’d be
solving mysteries with the same brilliance today.
That’s why we translated these stories for you. And here’s our
suggestion: after you’ve read them, read them out to your parents. Even
your grandparents, if you like. Because nothing reduces the generation gap
than cracking a good detective story. Or three. As Byomkesh might have
said, ‘Let’s go.’

2012 Arunava Sinha

Arunava Sinha is a translator of classic and contemporary Bengali fiction.

His translation of Sankar’s Chowringhee won the Vodafone-Crossword
translation prize in 2007, and was shortlisted for the Independent Best
Foreign Fiction prize in the UK in the year 2009.
Fourteen of his translations from Bengali into English have been
published so far. He was born and educated in Calcutta, and now lives in
New Delhi with his wife and son.
With Puffin Classics, the story isn’t over
when you reach the final page.
Want to discover more about the author
and his world?
Read on …
 AUTHOR FILE

NAME: Saradindu Bandyopadhyay

BORN: 30 March 1899 in Jaunpur, Uttar Pradesh.
EDUCATION: Graduated from Vidyasagar College, Calcutta. Studied law in
Patna.
LITERARY CAREER:
Known in Bengal for his detective novels, a large number of short stories on
a variety of topics, historical novels and even children’s literature.
Published his first book—a collection of poems—called Jouban Smriti
(Memories of Youth) while he was still in college. Started writing short
stories while studying and practising law in Patna. Published his first
Byomkesh novella in 1932—and the character remained hugely popular till
his death. (He had an unfinished Byomkesh story at the time of his death.)
Moved to Bombay in 1938 and became a screenplay writer for Bombay
Talkies, which was the leading film production house of that time. Stayed
and worked in Bombay for nearly fifteen years. Continued to write in
Bengali after his return to Calcutta and became one of the most popular
authors of his time.
ON-SCREEN ADAPTATIONS:
Many of the Byomkesh stories have been made into films.
Satyajit Ray made one of his stories, ‘Chiriakhana’ (The Zoo), into a
Bengali film starring the biggest star of the times, Uttam Kumar, as the
detective.
The adaptation that made the detective a household name all over India
was a television series—Byomkesh Bakshi—made for Doordarshan, starring
Rajit Kapur in the title role. It was made in the early 1990s, had a very
successful run and is still seen on re-runs.
DIED: 22 September, 1970
 FIVE FACTS ABOUT BYOMKESH

1. Every detective has a distinctive style of solving cases. Actually, even when they aren’t
solving cases, they usually impress their clients and sidekicks with smart inferences drawn
from observing things closely. Byomkesh’s pet trick was to predict the look and manner of a
person by the way he knocked on the door.
2. Byomkesh did not like the terms ‘detective’ or ‘investigator’. He called himself a
Satyanweshi. Derived from the Sanskrit words ‘satya’ and ‘anweshi’, it literally means
‘seeker of truth’.
3. Byomkesh fell in love and married a lady called Satyabati. He hinted about this to his
friend-cum-foil Ajit by saying that he is always seeking ‘satya’!
4. In the stories, Byomkesh did not wear glasses but in Satyajit Ray’s film, he had glasses.
Subsequently, most film and TV adaptations have Byomkesh wearing glasses. In an
interview, Saradindu expressed his displeasure at his hero wearing glasses in the film.
5. Byomkesh’s father was a teacher of Mathematics and he himself holds a Physics degree—
which explains his analytical bent of mind. It was Ajit who taught him to play chess, but
within a few days, Byomkesh became better than his teacher and would outdo him at every
game!

SARADINDU’S CONTRIBUTION TO CHILDREN’S LITERATURE

Apart from Byomkesh, he created another popular character—Sadashiv—

for children.
This young boy was an orphan, growing up in rural Maharashtra during
the times when Chhatrapati Shivaji was fighting the Mughals and Bijapur
royals to establish an independent Maratha kingdom.
Saradindu wrote a series of stories covering the teen years of Sadashiv’s
life, when he runs away from home and joins Shivaji’s army. In every story,
Sadashiv managed to help the Maratha king by taking on a secret mission
and destroying the enemy’s plan with his bravery and intelligence.
Apart from Sadashiv and Shivaji, the stories had very authentic
depictions of other historic characters like Jijabai (Shivaji’s mother) and
Tanaji (Shivaji’s childhood friend and one of his generals).
There are five novellas of Sadashiv’s adventures (published between
1958 and 1962). Saradindu’s notebooks revealed notes and drafts of four
more episodes. He wanted to trace Shivaji’s entire life through the eyes of
Sadashiv, but unfortunately he passed away before the completion of these
books.
Sadashiv’s adventures are available in a book called Band of Soldiers: A
Year on the Road with Shivaji by Saradindu Bandyopadhyay; translated by
Sreejata Guha. Puffin Books.

THINGS TO THINK ABOUT

Partition of India
In the first story ‘Rhythm of Riddles’, one of the characters suffered a major
loss during the Partition of India.

The Partition of India happened in 1947, when India was divided into three
parts at the time of its independence from British rule. This division was
based on religious strife. Hence Hindu-dominated areas formed India while
the Muslim-dominated areas in the East formed East Pakistan (which later
became Bangladesh), and those in the West formed Pakistan.
The states of Punjab and Bengal were divided between the two countries.
Since the division was made on religious grounds, it is estimated that more
than 7 million people migrated from India to Pakistan and nearly an equal
number moved from Pakistan to India.
Both the governments were newly formed and were unable to handle
such massive transfers of population as well as the religious tensions. As a
result, there were widespread riots between the Hindus and Muslims
leading to large-scale loss of life and property.

Do you know of any other books and movies which are based on the
Partition of India? Do you have any members of your family (perhaps, your
grandparents) who were there when the Partition happened?

Seeing Ghosts
In the second story ‘The Death of Amrito’ as well as the third ‘Byomkesh
and Barada’, there are descriptions of ghost sightings.
Ghosts are spirits of dead people that become ‘visible’ to the living.
According to most theories, when a person has an unnatural death, his spirit
(or soul) refuses to leave the living world due to its ‘unfulfilled desires’.
For many centuries, there have been reports of people ‘seeing ghosts’ but
they have usually been negated by rationalists as hallucinations or any
unusual physical characteristics of the ‘haunted location’.

In films as well as books, ghosts are shown in different forms. Can you
name some films or books that show ghosts in the following forms?

Invisible—not seen by anybody but voice can be heard

Invisible—can be seen or heard by one (or a few)

Barely visible, smoky shapes

Regular, human-like shapes (indistinguishable from living human beings)

Can you think of any other form in which a ghost has appeared in a book
you have read or a film you have seen?

Do you know anybody—friends or family—who has seen a ghost? Ask him

to describe the whole incident in detail and try to see if there is any logical
explanation to the ‘ghost’s’ appearance.

Calling Ghosts
‘Ghost hobbyists’ often try to call the spirits of departed souls for a
conversation. One of the common techniques used for this uncommon
pastime is planchette (as described in ‘Byomkesh and Barada’).
Planchette is usually done through a ‘medium’—a person through whom
the ghost communicates. Often, the communication is done by the medium
holding a pencil above a paper and the ghost writing through him. Quite
obviously, a medium can write on his own and there is a high chance of
deception.
 Another method is to keep a pointer on a board with letters and numbers
printed on it. As the ghost appears, the pointer moves from letter to letter
spelling out answers to the questions posed to him.

Would you like to call ghosts? Whose ghost would you call? And what
questions would you ask him (or her)?

Name of the Detective

Saradindu Bandyopadhyay once said in an interview that for a character to
be memorable, it must have a catchy name.
Byomkesh Bakshi is certainly one of the catchiest names in detective
fiction—both the name and surname being uncommon but not rare in
isolation. In its combined form, the name becomes alliterative and unique.
In one of his stories, Byomkesh said that the British professors of his
college pronounced his name as Bomb Case!

Let us take a look at the names of the most famous detectives in fiction and
see how catchy they are.

Sherlock The most famous detective in history has a very unusual name, which literally
Holmes means ‘fair haired’. Sherlock’s elder brother also had a very unusual name—
Mycroft.

Hercule Poirot Both the name and the surname of Agatha Christie’s detective are quite
uncommon. The first name is the French version of the Greek hero, Hercules.
The detective took his name quite seriously and towards the end of his career,
he undertook twelve tasks that were quite similar to the Greek hero’s.

Father Brown G.K. Chesterton’s famous detective—who was a Catholic priest—on the other
hand, had a very common name. Even his first name is not clear from the
stories and he remains a bit of a mystery.

Victoria Usually known as V.I. Warshawski, this is a lady private investigator working
Iphigenia in Chicago.
Warshawski
Sam Spade Again, an alliterative name made up of a very common first name and surname.
Created by Dashiell Hammett, he was the hero of stories like The Maltese
Falcon that were also made into hugely popular films.

Prodosh C. Satyajit Ray’s famous detective takes a set of relatively common names to
Mitter a.k.a. create a name which eventually became iconic. And his pet name was common
Feluda to the point of being almost silly!

There are many more: Nancy Drew, Miss Marple et al. Would you like to list
out a few?
PUFFIN BOOKS
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
[Link]
First published in Puffin by Penguin Books India 2012
Text copyright © The Estate of Saradindu Bandyopadhyay 2012
Translation copyright © Arunava Sinha 2012
Cover illustration and design by Ajanta Guhathakurta
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-01-4333-182-7
This digital edition published in 2012.
e-ISBN: 978-81-8475-696-8