Five days later, Byomkesh returned, bringing with him a man—a lower-class Western youth. Byomkesh took the young man straight to the police station and spoke with Rakhal-babu. Then, leaving the youth in Rakhal-babu’s custody, he returned home. He told Rakhal-babu, “At four o’clock this afternoon, there will be a theatre in Benimadhab’s drawing room. You’ll be the stage manager.”

At four in the afternoon, Byomkesh arrived at Benimadhab’s house and found nine members of the household assembled in the drawing room. Ajay, Arati, and Makrand were seated on one sofa; on another sat Gangadhar, Gayatri, and Jhillī. Sanat and Nikhil sat apart on two chairs; Medini sat on the floor, leaning listlessly against the wall. On every face was an expression of irritation and fatigue. Police officers crowded the door and verandah. Rakhal-babu, a small suitcase in hand, paced the verandah impatiently.

As soon as Byomkesh arrived, Rakhal-babu said, “Everything’s ready. Shall we begin?”

Byomkesh asked, “Himmatlal?”

Rakhal-babu replied, “I’ve hidden him. He’ll enter the stage at the right moment.”

“Good, let’s go then. That in your hand—? Ah, I see.”

Rakhal-babu led Byomkesh into the drawing room. Everyone stirred; the frown on Makrand’s face deepened. Rakhal-babu dragged the low table in the center to one side and placed two light chairs before it; setting his suitcase on the table, he said to Byomkesh, “Please, sit.” He himself remained standing, alert.

Byomkesh, smiling, glanced around at everyone’s faces and said, “You’ll be pleased to hear that we have discovered who killed Benimadhab-babu, and we have irrefutable evidence against the assailant. The culprit is in this very room; you will know their identity in a moment.”

Everyone began to look at one another with suspicious eyes; most glances fell upon Gangadhar.

Byomkesh continued in a calm voice, “From the outset, we made a mistake—we assumed Benimadhab-babu was the main target. It was a natural error; Benimadhab-babu was a man of stature, and he was about to make a will that might have disinherited his heirs. Meghraj was Benimadhab’s gatekeeper; anyone who wished to kill Benimadhab could not enter the house without first killing Meghraj. But it is unthinkable that someone like Meghraj would be the murderer’s true target.

“One day, while investigating Benimadhab-babu’s room, I found his razor—a long, old-fashioned one, the kind Meghraj used to shave his beard. The razor was out of its sheath—”

I took it out and examined it—there was not a single fingerprint anywhere; someone had wiped the razor very carefully before placing it back in its sheath. But why? In the normal course of things, at least Meghraj’s fingerprints should have been on it.

I grew suspicious. I tried shaving with that razor myself and found it was completely blunt; not only was it impossible to shave with, you couldn’t even sharpen a pencil. Then there was no doubt left in my mind—the throats of two people had been cut with this very razor, and as a result, it had become blunt. The medical examination also confirmed that both murders had been committed with this razor.

But the razor was in the room, and the accused had come from outside; how did he get hold of the razor before entering the room? Clearly, someone had removed the razor from the room beforehand.

Who could have done it? That morning, Meghraj had shaved Benimadhab’s beard with that razor; after that, none of the people who had entered the room during the day had gone near the razor. Only two people came and went from that room regularly: Meghraj and Medini. Meghraj would not steal the razor to cut his own throat. So who was left?

Everyone’s gaze shifted to Medini. She sat as before, leaning against the wall, the end of her sari drawn up in both hands over her head, staring unblinkingly at Byomkesh.

Suddenly, Sanat spoke—“There’s one thing I don’t understand. Why did the murderer use uncle’s razor to cut his throat? Wasn’t there any other weapon?”

Byomkesh replied, “The accused is a clever man. He knows that it’s not easy to completely dispose of the weapon used in a murder. So he planned to wipe the razor clean after cutting Benimadhab’s throat and put it back in its place—no one would suspect that the murder was committed with that razor, and the police would grope in the dark. Do you see?”

“I do. Now, please finish your statement.”

Byomkesh resumed in his detached tone, “Medini is a girl from a humble background, but any man who has looked at her knows the tremendous magnetic power of her body. Whether she is of good character, we do not know. If she is not, then remember—apart from Meghraj and the old Benimadhab, there are five other able-bodied men in the house. Countless tragedies have occurred from illicit attachments between men and women; it is nothing to be surprised at.

“We went to Medini’s room and questioned her; from Meghraj’s military papers, we got her address in Delhi. Then we found something unexpected. Medini had a wooden box for her hair accessories; opening its lid, we saw a photograph stuck to the mirror. Medini’s photo, a recent one. She was sitting by the bed, smiling. I closed the lid again; Medini noticed nothing. The next day, I heard the box had been stolen.” Byomkesh raised his head and looked at Rakhalbabu.

Rakhalbabu, opening the suitcase on the table with an impassive face, said, “It was stolen, but we found it.” He took the vanity box out of the suitcase and placed it on the table.

Byomkesh said, “The photograph is still there, I presume.”

Rakhalbabu opened the lid and said, “It is.” He remained silent about who had stolen it and where it had been found. It seemed the theft was nothing but a smokescreen.

Byomkesh said, “Very well. Then we met with the other residents of the house one by one. We collected all the raincoats in the house; only Makranda’s raincoat was missing.”

Beni