Byomkesh sat up with a start and said, "Do you know how much it costs to go to Kashmir?"

"How much?"

"At least a thousand rupees. Where would I get that kind of money?"

Satyabati, her temper flaring, stood up and said, "I don’t know about all that. Just tell me if you’ll go or not."

"I told you, I don’t have the money."

At that moment, there was a knock at the outer door. What promised to be a most enjoyable marital quarrel was thus abruptly interrupted. Satyabati, having scorched Byomkesh with a few sharp, half-spoken barbs, retreated into the inner rooms.

I lit the lamp and opened the door. The man standing outside appeared, at first glance, to be little more than a youth. Not very tall, slim and wiry, with a fair, handsome face marked by the faintest trace of a moustache. His attire was immaculate, from the deerskin shoes on his feet to the sheer muslin panjabi draped over his frame—everything about him was impeccable.

"Whom do you seek?"

"The satyanweshi, Byomkesh Babu."

"Come in," I said, stepping aside from the door.

The man entered and stood beneath the bright electric light, allowing me a better look at his features. Not as young as I had first thought; there was a subtle ripeness to his complexion. His eyes bore the imprint of worldly experience, with fine shadows etched at their corners, and beneath the outward delicacy of his face, the bones had already begun to harden with age. Yet he could not have been more than twenty-five.

Byomkesh, who had been observing the visitor from beside the takhtposh, now rose and took a seat in a chair. Indicating the chair opposite, he said, "Sit. What brings you to me?"

The man did not answer at once. He sat down, studied us both with careful attention for a moment, and then said, "You’ll do for my purpose."

Byomkesh raised his brows. "Is that so? And what is this purpose?"

The young man drew a bundle of notes from his side pocket and, with an air of indifference, tossed them onto the table before Byomkesh. "If I should die suddenly, you are to investigate the cause of my death. That is the task. Since I may not be able to pay you later, I am giving you your fee in advance. Count it—one thousand rupees."

Byomkesh gazed at the youth with narrowed eyes for a moment, then counted the bundle. Ten crisp notes of one hundred rupees each. Setting the notes to one side of the table, Byomkesh lazily glanced at me; a glimmer of amusement flickered in his eyes. Then, fixing a grave look upon the young man’s face, he said, "I have a few questions for you. Whether I accept your case will depend on your answers."

The youth opened a gold cigarette case and offered it to Byomkesh, who shook his head in refusal. Lighting a cigarette for himself, the young man exhaled a plume of smoke and said, "Ask. But I may not answer every question."

Byomkesh was silent for a moment, then asked in a languid tone, "What is your name?"

A quick smile played across the young man’s lips—a rather captivating smile. He replied, "I haven’t told you that yet. My name is Satyakam Das."

"Satyakam?"

"Yes! Just as you are a satyanweshi, I am Satyakam."

Byomkesh Samagra

“I haven’t heard this name before. Satyakam—is that an alias?” “No, it’s my real name.” “Hm. Where do you live? What’s your address?” “I live in Calcutta. 33/34 Amherst Street.” “What do you do?” “Work? I don’t do anything in particular. Have you heard of Suchitra Emporium, of Das-Chowdhury Company?” “I have. The large jewelry store on Dharmatala Street.” “I’m a partner at Suchitra Emporium.” “A partner. —Who are the other partners?” Satyakam drew a breath and said, “My father—Ushapati Das.” Byomkesh looked at him with a questioning gaze. Satyakam hesitated for a moment, then, reluctantly, he said, “My maternal grandfather founded Suchitra Emporium. Later, my father became his partner. Now Grandfather has passed away, and he left his share to me. My mother was his only child. I am my mother’s only child.” “I see.” Byomkesh seemed lost in thought for a moment, then asked in a detached tone, “Do you drink?” Without the least embarrassment, Satyakam replied, “I do. You caught the scent, didn’t you?” “How old are you?” “I’m twenty-one. Want to know my birth date? July 7, 1927.” Satyakam smiled with a hint of irony. “How long have you been drinking?” “I started at fourteen.” Satyakam lit a fresh cigarette from the stub of the last. “Do you drink all the time?” “Whenever I feel like it.” With that, he took a four-ounce flask from his pocket and showed it. Byomkesh sat for a while, his hand on his cheek. I, too, gazed in silence at this twenty-one-year-old youth. Those who wish to conquer the three worlds by casting off all shame must, I suppose, begin their training at a very early age. Byomkesh raised his head and, in the same impassive tone, asked, “Do you have other vices as well?” Satyakam smirked, “Why call them vices, Byomkesh-babu? Can something so universal truly be a vice?” My skin crawled. Byomkesh, however, replied with an unruffled face, “Let’s leave the philosophical debate aside. Have you set your sights on respectable women as well?” “I have.” There was a distinct note of satisfaction in Satyakam’s voice. “How many women have you ruined?” “I haven’t kept count, Byomkesh-babu.” Satyakam grinned shamelessly. Byomkesh made a gesture of distaste. “You say you might die suddenly. Is it your fear that someone will murder you?” “Yes.” “Who might want to kill you? The relatives of the women you’ve harmed? Do you suspect anyone?”

Rokter Daag 563

“Do you suspect anyone?” “I do. But I won’t name names.” “You won’t even try to save your own life?” Satyakam’s face twisted into a desolate expression as he made