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 seem that Ushapati Babu remembered our names from before, but the natural courtesy of a shopkeeper toward a customer appeared ingrained in his very bones; so, without displaying any impatience, he said, “Is there something you need? I’m a bit—there’s been an accident at home—”

Byomkesh said, “I know. That’s why we’ve come. Satyakam Babu—”

“You knew Satyakam?”

“I met him only the day before yesterday. He came to me with a proposal—”

“What proposal?”

“He proposed that, should he die suddenly, I would investigate the circumstances of his death.”

Ushapati Babu now sat up straight, staring at us for a moment with unblinking eyes, as if suppressing a surge of emotion. Then, in a controlled voice, he said, “Please, have a seat. —So Satyakam understood, after all. But forgive me, I don’t understand why Satyakam came to you. You—your identity—are you with the police? But the police were here last night, they—”

“No, I am not with the police. I am a satyanweshi—a seeker of truth. You could say a private detective.”

“Oh—” Ushapati Babu was silent for a long while, then said, “Did Satyakam tell you whom he suspected?”

“No, he mentioned no names. —If you permit, I would like to investigate.”

“But—the police have already taken charge of the investigation. What more could you do?”

“I don’t know yet if I can do anything at all, but I can try.”

Rokter Daag 569

Even in the midst of such overwhelming grief, Ushapati Babu had not lost his presence of mind—this became clear to me now.

He said, "You are a private detective. How much must I pay you for your services?"

Byomkesh replied, "You need not pay me anything. My fee has already been settled by Satyakam Babu."

Ushapati Babu fixed Byomkesh with a sharp gaze, then lowered his eyes and murmured, "Oh. Well, investigate if you must. But there is no use, Byomkesh Babu."

"No use? Why not?"

"Satyakam will not return, will he? What is the point of muddying the waters?"

Byomkesh regarded Ushapati Babu with steady eyes for a moment, then spoke in a calm voice, "I understand your feelings. Rest assured, I will not stir up trouble. My only aim is to uncover the truth."

Ushapati Babu let out a weary sigh. "Very well. Tell me what I must do."

Byomkesh said, "I know nothing of how or when Satyakam Babu died last night. Can you tell me?"

Ushapati Babu’s face grew even more drawn. He ran a hand across his chest and said, "Who else is there to tell you but me? Last night, at one o’clock, I was asleep in my own room when a sound woke me. A sudden, sharp noise. It seemed to come from the direction of the main entrance—"

"Forgive me, where is your bedroom?"

Ushapati Babu pointed upward toward the ceiling. "The room above this one. I sleep alone; my wife sleeps in the adjoining room."

"And which room did Satyakam Babu sleep in?"

"Satyakam slept