‘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.’

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