‘What do you want?’

‘Is Bishwanath-babu in? We’re here from the police.’

Alarmed, he quickly said, ‘Please come in, please take a seat. Sir is supervising mill work, he’ll be here any moment. Should I send word to him?’

We sat down on the mattress, which covered half the floor. To tell the truth, such old-fashioned mattresses were far more comfortable than modern sofas and chairs. Pulling a well-stuffed bolster towards himself, Byomkesh said, ‘Oh no, there’s no need. I only have a couple of questions, which you can answer just as well. You’re the bookkeeper, aren’t you?’

Rubbing his hands in deference, the man said, ‘Yes, I’m the chief accountant here. Your servant’s name is Nilkantha Adhikari. And you are Byomkesh Bakshi?’

Byomkesh nodded, smiling. Nilkantha gazed at him with eyes brimming with devotion. There are people whose hearts melt at the mention of the police. On top of that, when such people hear Byomkesh Bakshi’s name, their emotions surge like the waters of a flood breaching a dam; they simply cannot be contained. Nilkantha Adhikari was such a man. His expression revealed that there was nothing he could not do for Byomkesh; he was determined to answer questions, in fact, he would answer even without being questioned.

‘You look like a capable man,’ said Byomkesh. ‘Do you look after everything at the mill yourself?’

Rubbing his hands in glee, Byomkesh said, ‘Sir looks after things too. In his absence the entire responsibility falls on me.’

‘Doesn’t Bishwanath-babu live here?’

‘He does. But when there isn’t too much work at the mill, he goes to Calcutta for a few days. Sir’s family lives in Calcutta.’

‘I see. How long has it been since he went to Calcutta?’

‘About a month. There’s a lot of work now …’

‘Very well, never mind all that. Did you know the young man named Amrito from Baghmari who died recently?’

‘Of course I did,’ answered Nilkantha eagerly. ‘Amrito used to visit sir quite often in search of a job. But …’

‘Did you know Sadananda Sur too?’

‘I heard this morning that Sadananda-babu died last night in a bomb explosion. I used to know him very well. He was a regular visitor here.’

‘With what objective?’

‘Objective? He was close to sir. He used to sit here sometimes, smoke a little, chat with sir. No other objective. But …’ Nilkantha paused.

‘So he was a courtier. But what?’

‘He had borrowed some money from sir about ten days ago.’

‘Really! How much?’

‘Five hundred.’

‘Did he write a hand note when he borrowed the money?’

‘No. Sir used to trust Sadananda-babu; it was put down as a loan to him in the books of accounts. The money’s probably gone.’ Nilkantha shook his head regretfully.

Byomkesh began to ponder, his face resting in his palm. I had no idea what he was musing on, but a little later, the neighing of a horse outside shook him out of his reverie. ‘By the way, I spotted several horses here,’ he said, raising his eyes. ‘Are they all yours?’

‘Yes, they’re all ours,’ Nilkantha responded with enthusiasm. ‘Sir loves horses. We have nine of them.’

‘Indeed. What do all these horses do? Do they pull wagons?’

‘Of course they do. Besides, sir himself loves riding. He was a jockey when he was young, you see …’

‘Nilkantha!’

From somewhere behind us, the sound landed like a whiplash on Nilkantha’s mouth. He fell silent with a terrified expression, while both of us turned our heads.

A man stood at the door. He was about forty years of age, short and slim, with large eyes sitting on a gaunt face. Although his body, clad in shorts and a half-sleeved shirt, had no deformities, his legs were curved like a bow. There was no doubt that this was the owner of the mill, the former jockey Bishwanath Mallik.

Bishwanath Mallik was still staring at Nilkantha, without having cast a single glance in our direction. Stepping into the room, he told Nilkantha as sharply as before, ‘There’s a delivery to the station, look after it.’

Nilkantha galloped out of the room like a whipped horse.

Finally Bishwanath Mallik turned towards us. The gravity of ownership dissipated slightly from his face, and the hint of a smile appeared. ‘Nilkantha talks too much,’ he said in an unruffled tone. ‘Was he telling you stories about my being a jockey earlier?’

‘The subject of your being a jockey came up from a discussion on horses,’ said Byomkesh defensively.

‘Everyone wants to bury their embarrassing past,’ smiled Bishwanath. ‘But I am not embarrassed. On the contrary, I regret having given up my life as a jockey, for I may have been a Khim Singh or a Khade by now. But never mind all that. You’re Byomkesh-babu, aren’t you? Are you here to enquire into Sadananda Sur’s death? Come, let’s go to my chamber.’

Bishu Mallik’s private chamber was neatly furnished in modern style with a desk and chairs. After we took our seats he fetched a tin of cigarettes from his drawer.

Bishu Mallik may have been frail of build, but his conduct revealed a confident personality. Nor was it difficult to perceive the alert and powerful intelligence sparkling in his eyes. He lit his own cigarette after lighting ours, then sat down behind his desk. ‘I know why you’re in Santalgola, Byomkesh-babu,’ he said. ‘Possibly everyone here knows. Now tell me how I can help you. Of course, Nilkantha has told you everything about me already. If you consider me a suspect in the weapons case, you’re free to search my mill, I have no objection.’

‘We’ll talk about searching later,’ smiled Byomkesh. ‘For now, please satiate my personal curiosity on one point. Why did you give up a career as a jockey to start a rice mill? So far as I know, being a jockey is lucrative.’

‘It’s lucrative, yes, but there are too many rules in the jockey’s life, Byomkesh-babu,’ Bishu-babu