After the manager left, Byomkesh began to inspect the furniture in the room. Nearly all the rooms in this boarding- house were quite large—two or three people shared each one. But this was a smaller room, designed for a single occupant. The rent was also higher than the norm. As a result, the room stayed empty most of the time. It was ideal for someone who wished to live in a mess and yet maintain his privacy.

There was nothing in the room except for a couple of trunks and bedding. Byomkesh scrutinized the bed and remarked, ‘It is winter and yet he hasn’t taken either the blanket or the pillow with him. Do you know what that means?’

‘No. What does it mean?’

‘He must have another set waiting elsewhere.’

Byomkesh turned the bed upside down, but it yielded nothing.

I asked, ‘Are you expecting to find the matchbox here? You think he would leave it behind in his room?’

‘No—he wouldn’t have come back then. I am looking for his present address—something that will indicate his real name and address. I suppose even you have figured out by now that his real name isn’t Byomkesh Bose?’

‘Er ... I mean... yes, of course I have. But what is the reason for adopting that particular alias?’

Byomkesh flopped down upon the bed and began to look around him as he said, ‘The reason is revenge. Ajit, the psychology of revenge is very strange. Since you are a writer, you know a lot about human psychology. So you probably know that revenge accomplished from behind the scenes brings no joy to the avenger; with each and every blow he wants to announce that he is having his revenge. If the enemy fails to discern the source of the blow, half the fun of revenge is gone. That is why this gentleman had to announce his presence to me. If this had been the stone age instead of the civilized twentieth century, such dissimilation would not have been necessary—he could have simply come and bludgeoned me with a rock. But in this day and age that doesn’t work—it can earn him the death penalty. But, though the mode of revenge may have changed, the mindset remains the same. It was this emotion that had made him rush to Srirampore for a glimpse of my dead visage. ‘ Byomkesh gave a whimsical laugh, ‘Do you remember the letter? It was meant for me—he had written it himself. Behind the words dripping with gratitude was a simple message. He made it as clear as possible that he had not forgotten anything and was eager to repay my debt. We, of course, misread the letter—but I had a doubt. Perhaps you remember.’

I saw the words in the letter in a new light. I said, ‘I do remember. But who knew then that... tell me, the man is an old enemy of yours, right?’

‘There is no doubt about that.’

‘But you cannot figure out who he is?’

‘Perhaps I can. But let that be for now—let’s take a look at his boxes.’

One of the trunks was unlocked. Byomkesh fiddled around with the lock of the other one and it came apart. There were some warm jackets and kurtas in there. When we took them out, we found some spirit gum and some plaited faux hair at the bottom of the trunk. Byomkesh held them up and said, ‘Hmm. Someone whose face has been disfigured by acid, will naturally need to don some disguises at times. Perhaps he had changed his appearance when he switched my matchbox in the tram.’

He kept these aside and dug into the box again, saying, ‘But what’s this?’

It was a bundle wrapped in a fabric which felt like oil-cloth.

Carefully, Byomkesh put it down on the floor and unwrapped it. An empty bottle of about half an ounce, some broken pieces of red sealing wax and a half-burnt candle were revealed.

Byomkesh opened the bottle and took a sniff, inspected the sealing wax and the candle and, finally, picked up the oil-cloth and began to scrutinize it. I noticed that it wasn’t an ordinary oil-cloth. It was a waterproof material of very high quality—a little bluish and translucent—about the size of a handkerchief. At present a quarter of the sheet was missing from one corner—it appeared as if it had been torn off.

Byomkesh said with great deliberation, ‘Bottle, sealing wax, candle and waterproof: all in one place. Have you deduced the implication of all this?’

‘No. What is it?’

‘Didn’t you get a clue from the waterproof?’

In sheer despair I replied, ‘Nothing. What have you deduced from it?’

‘Everything, except the man’s present address. Come on, we are done here.’

At this moment the manager returned and said, ‘I have notified the inspector, he will be here any moment.’

‘Fine. Well, sir, when this namesake of mine left, I am sure you had gone upto the entrance with him?’

‘Yes, yes, I did.’

‘Did you happen to notice the number of the taxi?’

The manager shook his head and said, ‘No. All I noticed was that it was a blue taxi, quite old, and that the driver was a Sikh.’

Byomkesh was silent for a few moments and then he asked, ‘Was anyone else at the door at the time?’

The manager thought for a while and then said, ‘I don’t remember any of the gentlemen being there. But Putiram, your domestic, was sitting in the yard. Since you weren’t at home, perhaps he was taking a short—’

Byomkesh sighed and said, ‘Putiram’s presence or absence doesn’t make a difference. He doesn’t know English and so even if he did notice the number-plate of the taxi, he wouldn’t have been able to read it. Come on then Ajit, it is nearly half past one and my stomach is making strange sounds. Sir, would you be able to fix us up with a meal today—if