‘Hmm. Any other possibilities?’

Byomkesh laughed and said, ‘The photographer, Nakuleshbabu himself, could be behind the theft.’

‘What would be his reason?’

‘So that his photograph would sell more copies.’ Byomkesh continued to chuckle.

‘Do you really think that is possible?’

‘Nothing is impossible for a businessman. In America, they burn their foodgrains to make the prices rise artificially.’

‘All right. Anyone else?’

‘Perhaps there is someone in that group there, who wants to erase all traces of his existence...’

‘You mean someone with a criminal record?’

At this point, there was a soft knock on our door. I went and opened it. Professor Shome stood there, wearing a warm dressing gown. We received him cordially. Ever since our arrival here, he came down every evening at around this time to ask how we were doing. We would chat for a while; then he would go back, when it was time for dinner. His wife had also come down a couple of times. But she didn’t seem too keen to get to know Satyaboti; the indifference was duly reciprocated by Satyaboti.

Shome came in and took a seat. I offered him a cigarette and lit one myself. This was my only chance of getting to smoke in Byomkesh’s presence; he couldn’t yell at me in front of a guest.

Shome asked us, ‘So what did you think of our little party?’

Byomkesh replied, ‘Quite nice. Interesting people, easy to get along with.’

Shome took a drag on his cigarette and said, ‘It always seems like that from a distance. But you don’t need me to tell you that. Mrs Bakshi, tell me, out of all the people that you met today, who did you like the most?’

Without a shred of hesitation, Satyaboti replied, ‘Rajani. She has a sweet nature and I have really taken to her.’

A slight blush spread across Shome’s face. Satyaboti didn’t notice it and continued, ‘She’s as pretty as she’s sweet. And she is very intelligent, too. Tell me, why is Mahidharbabu not doing anything to get his daughter married yet—he has enough money...’

Suddenly, a shrill voice shrieked out from the doorway, startling all of us. ‘Widow! She’s a widow! Which Hindu boy would marry a widow?’

None of us was aware that Malati Devi had come and stood at the door. The news was as unexpected as was the appearance of its bearer. Astounded, we all looked at Malati Devi. She swept her vicious eyes over us and spoke again, ‘Don’t you believe me? He knows, ask him. Everyone here knows about it. Only a widow who has lost all sense of decorum would go about pretending to be unmarried. But then, what would a brazen one like her know of shame? All her fancy airs—all meant to trap other men. ‘ Malati Devi went back as suddenly as she had come in. The sound of her marching footsteps echoed on the stairs.

Professor Shome was affected the most by this unseemly exhibition.