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