A priceless necklace made of precious gemstones had been stolen from the home of the famous jeweller Rashomoy Sirkar. I noticed the headline on page three while going through the morning newspaper. The phone rang at around eight a.m.

A tremulous, unfamiliar voice asked, ‘Hello, is that Byomkeshbabu?’

‘No,’ I replied, ‘this is Ajit. May I know who’s on the line?’

‘My name is Rashomoy Sirkar,’ came the reply. ‘Could you please tell Byomkeshbabu that I need to speak to him?’

The name gave it all away—Byomkesh would obviously be summoned to flush out the thief and apprehend him.

‘He’s in the bathroom,’ I explained. ‘He’ll take a while. I read in the newspaper that a necklace had been stolen from your store.’

‘Not from the store. From my home. Are you Ajit Bandyopadhyay, Byomkeshbabu’s friend?’

‘That’s right,’ I replied. ‘You may, if you like, tell me whatever it is that you wish to discuss with Byomkesh.’

There was a slight pause. Then Rashomoy Sirkar began, ‘The necklace that was stolen is worth fifty-seven thousand rupees. We suspect one of the domestic staff, but there is no evidence. We have naturally informed the police, but Byomkeshbabu’s the person I want. He is the only one who can recover the necklace.’

‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you come over? By the time you arrive, Byomkesh should be out of the bathroom.’

Rashomoy sounded a little glum as he said, ‘I am arthritic and not very mobile. I would be deeply grateful if the two of you consented to come over to my place instead.’

Those in need always came in search of Byomkesh, I mused; he never sought anyone out. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll let Byomkesh know.’

Rashomoy’s voice sounded still more frantic, ‘Oh, no, please! You won’t just let him know! You must come over! I’m sending my car down to fetch the two of you. You won’t be inconvenienced in any way, I promise.’

‘Well, all right.’

‘Thank you, thank you! I’ll send the car right away.’

Within a few minutes, a Cadillac glided to a halt before the front door. When Byomkesh emerged from the bathroom, I told him what had transpired and drew his attention to the car, visible from the window. After hearing me out, he did not demur. We got into the Cadillac and set off.

Rashomoy Sirkar owned more than four jewellery stores in different parts of the city. But he lived in Bowbazaar. In a short while, we had arrived at his place and the car rolled to a stop before his front door.

The house was an old-fashioned one, three-storeyed and flush with the pavement. The door to the stairway leading upstairs stood in the centre, flanked by shops on either side. The owner’s living quarters spread over the entire first and second floors.

As the car pulled over, the door to the stairway was unbolted from inside by a handsome young man who came out to greet us. He was around twenty-seven years old and fashionably dressed. Joining his palms together in a namaskar, he introduced himself: ‘I’m Monimoy Sirkar. My father is waiting for you upstairs. Please follow me.’

We began to mount the stairs. On the first floor lay the kitchen, the pantry, the servants’ quarters and a drawing room with a divan laid out in it. We went up to the second floor. This was where the owner lived with his family.

Once you arrived on this floor, the owner’s affluence became apparent. Silk curtains swished at heavy doors equipped with foreign-made locks. Thick carpets sprawled across the floor. The drawing room was lavishly done up. Well-upholstered sofa sets sat grouped around a wooden centre table with inlay work. Bookshelves lined the wall separating the windows. Persian-style tapestries adorned the wall. At present, the room looked a bit untidy. Monimoy led us into a room and announced, ‘Father, Byomkeshbabu is here.’

Rashomoy Sirkar was sitting on a chair with his right leg stretched out. A young lady—perhaps his daughter-in-law—sat on the floor by him, applying a hot compress to his feet. Rashomoybabu was around fifty. His heavy-set face was still quite firm for his age. When he saw us, he tried to rise hastily to his feet, but fell back. Glancing at Byomkesh and me in turn, he brought his palms together in greeting and addressed Byomkesh, ‘Welcome, Byomkeshbabu. I have been dealt really heavy blows from all sides. It’s so kind of you—both—to have come over. Please make yourself comfortable, Ajitbabu.’

Rashomoybabu could guess which one of us was Byomkesh without being told. No doubt he possessed more than his fair share of perspicacity. Byomkesh and I seated ourselves on the sofa. ‘I see you suffer from arthritis,’ Byomkesh observed, addressing Rashomoybabu. ‘Not a fatal disease, but terribly painful.’

‘As I well know!’ Rashomoy replied. ‘I am quite fit otherwise, but this arthritis has really got me down. In my youth, I used to play football and fractured the big toe of my right foot during a game. Now it has come to this: If a tiny, handkerchief-sized cloud peers down from a corner of the sky, my toe starts hurting. Anyway, let’s not talk about it. Bouma, please arrange to have tea served to these gentlemen.’

All this while, the young woman had been working in silence as she applied the hot compress to her father-in-law’s feet. She was beautiful, but the misfortune that had befallen the family had cast its shadow on her face. As she made to rise, Byomkesh said, ‘Oh, please don’t trouble yourself. We had tea before we left. Let her carry on with what she’s doing.’

Rashomoy smiled. The young lady settled down again. Rashomoy said, ‘All right, then. Let it be. Moni, please fetch me my cigarettes.’

All along, Monimoy had been standing behind a chair. After he left the room, Rashomoy looked at his daughter-in-law lovingly and said, ‘My bouma is a very good human being. My wife