Three

Though I have never worked in an office in my life, for some reason I always wake late on Sunday mornings. My ancestors were government clerks, perhaps the stain of servitude lingers in my blood.

The next day was Sunday. At half past seven, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I entered the outer room to find Byomkesh holding the newspaper wide open in both hands, staring at it intently. He didn’t turn his gaze at my arrival; it was as if he addressed the newspaper itself, reciting, “O messenger, your tidings are like the dreams of night!”

His demeanor struck me as odd. I asked, “What’s happened?”

He lowered the paper and said, “Satyakam died last night.”

“What! How did he die?”

“I don’t know. Get ready—we have to leave within half an hour.”

I picked up the newspaper. At the bottom of the middle page, a five-line report—

—In the small hours of this morning, Satyakam Das, the well-known proprietor of Suchitra Emporium, Dharmatala, has died under suspicious circumstances. Police have taken up the investigation.

So Satyakam had sensed it—he had foreseen his death. But so soon! The first thing that came to mind was Nanda Ghosh, skulking in the shadows beneath his shawl outside the house last evening—

At half past eight, Byomkesh and I arrived at Amherst Street. A constable stood on the pavement outside the gate; after a bit of scrutiny, he allowed us to enter.

Byomkesh Samagra

We arrived at the main entrance by way of the brick-paved road. The front door stood open, but there was no one in sight. Nor was there any sound of weeping or lamentation from inside the house. Byomkesh, upon reaching the doorway, halted abruptly and silently pointed to the ground. I saw that, right in front of the door where the brick path ended, there was a stain of blood. Not fresh blood, but a patch the size of a palm, dried and caked into a dark crust.

We exchanged a glance; Byomkesh nodded. Skirting the bloodstained spot, we entered the house.

A wide veranda stretched before us, with two doors on either side. One was locked, the other open; through the open door, a medium-sized office room was visible. In the center of the room stood a large table, and facing it, Ushapati Babu sat alone.

Ushapati Babu sat with both elbows resting on the table, his chin cupped in his palms. As we entered, he raised his sorrow-filled eyes to us and, in a dry, weary voice, asked, “What do you want?”

Byomkesh stepped up to the table and, in a tone of sympathy, said, “Forgive me for disturbing you at such a time. My name is Byomkesh Bakshi—”

Ushapati Babu, becoming slightly more alert, turned his gaze from one to the other, then said, “I’ve seen you somewhere before. Perhaps at Suchitra’s. —What did you say your name was?”

“Byomkesh Bakshi. This is Ajit Bandyopadhyay. —Yesterday we visited your shop—”

It did not