D ebkumarbabu’s trial had come to an end at the High Court. It was early February. The severity of winter was subsiding gradually. At times a light breeze brought the reminder that spring was not far away, but the warm rays of the morning sun still seemed inviting enough.

That morning, I was sitting by the window and soaking up the sun while turning the pages of the newspaper. Byomkesh had left on some errand soon after breakfast. He had said he would be back by ten o’clock.

The newspaper contained a report of the final phase of Debkumarbabu’s trial. I had no need to read about it because Byomkesh and I had been present in court through the entire proceedings. So I was turning the pages lazily and thinking about Debkumarbabu and his impossible obduracy. If he had been a little flexible, perhaps his conviction for murder could have been averted, since high politics did not always go by the penal code. But Debkumarbabu had decided not to reveal the formula of his invention, and there was no way to make him change his mind. An extensive investigation of the matchsticks, too, had failed to reveal the exact composition of the poisonous substance. So, the legal juggernaut had run its full course and brought the tragic matter to its conclusion.

I was still reflecting on the newspaper report when the telephone rang. I went and picked up the receiver. It was Inspector Birenbabu from the police station. His voice had an agitated edge to it. ‘Is Byomkeshbabu at home?’ he asked.

‘He has just stepped out. Is it anything urgent?’

‘Yes—when will he return?’

‘At about ten o’clock.’

‘All right then, I shall be there around ten. I have some bad news.’

Before I could ask him what the bad news was, he had hung up. I went back to my seat. My watch said it was nine o’clock. Although I felt restless, I picked up the newspaper and tried to go through it again, waiting for the clock to strike ten.

But I did not have to wait that long. Byomkesh returned within the next half hour. When I told him about Birenbabu’s call, he looked surprised and said, ‘Really? I wonder what it is now.’

I shook my head in silence. Byomkesh summoned Putiram and directed him to make some tea. This was a prerequisite to greeting Birenbabu. He had such a fondness for the beverage that it brooked no consideration for time and place.

After ordering the tea, Byomkesh stretched out on a chair and took out his packet of cigarettes; he held one between his lips and, taking a matchbox out of his pocket, remarked, ‘If Birenbabu says it is bad news, it must be something serious. Maybe—’

He stopped short. I looked up and found him gazing in astonishment at the matchbox he was holding. Putting down the unlit cigarette, he spoke slowly, ‘This is very strange! How did this matchbox come to be in my pocket?’

‘Which matchbox?’

Byomkesh held the box up for me. It looked no different from an ordinary matchbox. Seeing the mystified look on my face, Byomkesh said, ‘Perhaps you can see that the label on the box shows a woodcutter with an axe on his shoulder, about to chop up a palm tree. But in our house...’

I butted in, ‘I get it—we always buy the Horse brand.’

‘Exactly. So, when I went out, I had a Horse brand matchbox in my pocket, naturally. But when I come back, the horse has turned into a woodcutter. The thing is, even in this age of scientific advancement and evolution, isn’t this a bit much?’ He raised his voice and called out, ‘Putiram!’

Putiram came and stood before us.

‘Which brand of matches did you buy this time?’

‘The Horse brand, sir.’

‘How many did you bring?’

‘One dozen, sir.’

‘Did you pick up the Woodcutter brand, by any chance?’

‘No, sir.’

‘All right, you may go.’

Putiram went back inside.

Byomkesh’s brows drew close in a frown as he continued to ponder over the matchbox. After a while, he said, ‘Now I remember—when I lit a cigarette in the tram, the man sitting next to me asked for the matches. He returned the box after lighting his own cigarette and I dropped it into my pocket without looking at it ... Ajit!’

‘Yes?’

Byomkesh stood up and exclaimed, ‘Ajit, that is the man who switched the matchboxes. ‘ I noticed that his face had suddenly gone deathly pale.

I asked, ‘Who was he? Do you remember what he looked like?’

Byomkesh shook his head and said, ‘No, I didn’t get a good look. As far as I remember, he wore a monkey-cap covering most of his face, and had dark glasses on. ‘ Byomkesh paused for a few moments; then he looked at the clock and asked, ‘What time did Birenbabu say he would be here?’

‘At ten.’

‘Then it is almost time. Ajit, do you know why Birenbabu is coming today?’

‘No—do you?’

‘I have a feeling—I suspect—’

At this moment we heard Birenbabu’s heavy footsteps on the stairs and Byomkesh’s sentence remained incomplete.

Birenbabu entered the room and gravely took a seat. Byomkesh handed him a cigarette and said, ‘Please use your own matchbox to light it. When was Debkurnarbabu’s matchbox stolen?’

‘Day before yesterday, ‘ said Birenbabu without thinking. Then he looked up in amazement, saying, ‘But how did you come to know? This is top secret—no one knows as yet.’

‘The thief himself has chosen to notify me,’ said Byomkesh. He told Birenbabu about the incident in the tram.

Birenbabu took it all in with great attentiveness. Then he looked at the matchbox and kept it aside warily, saying, ‘This box holds one lethal matchstick. My God! Do you have any idea about who might be behind this?’

‘No. But whoever it is, there is no doubt about one fact: he wants me dead.’

‘But