Fourteen

Ten minutes later, Byomkesh told him to stop. I climbed down from the ekka and, peering through the misty light, saw that we had arrived at the corner of Dipnarayan Singh’s house, near the letterbox. Byomkesh paid the ekkawallah his fare and a tip.

“Salam, babuji.”

The hazy bubble of light, floating in the sea of darkness, jingled away into the distance.

We were plunged back into the same darkness from which we had emerged.

“What now? Shall I strike a match?”

Before Byomkesh could reply, a harsh beam of light flared before our eyes; I shielded my face with my hand. Byomkesh spoke, “Who’s there—Sub-Inspector Tiwari?”

“Yes.” Tiwari lowered the torch so its light fell to the ground and came to stand beside us. The faint glow rising from the earth illuminated our three faces. All of us were clad in black; the brass buttons on Tiwari’s black coat glinted in the light.

“How many men do you have with you?”

“Two.” Tiwari swung the torch slightly behind him. Two thin, ghostly police jamadars stood at his back.

Byomkesh said, “Good, two will suffice. Have you told them what to do?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s climb the trees, one by one. Ajit, you take the tree in front. Sit quietly on a branch—don’t smoke. Don’t come down until you hear the whistle. Tiwari-ji, hand me the torch.”

Taking the torch, Byomkesh shone it up into a mango tree. About five or six yards from the letterbox stood a large mango tree, a thick branch jutting out from the trunk. As I wondered whether there might be an ants’ nest in the tree, I began to climb.

“That’s enough, don’t go any higher.”

I settled myself carefully at the fork of two branches. My days of clambering about in trees were long past; a faint unease crept over me.

Byomkesh asked, “Alright. You remember everything?”

“Yes. The moment I hear the whistle, I’ll rush down like a lovelorn Radha.”

Byomkesh then led the other three along the inside of the wall. Skipping two or three trees, one of the jamadars climbed up another. They moved farther away; I couldn’t see who climbed which tree. Only the shifting beams of electric torches played through the dense foliage before my eyes.

Then even those torches went dark.

I brought my wristwatch close to my face, reading the radium dial—ten minutes past nine. I doubted anything would happen before another hour had passed.

I sat waiting. Luckily, there was no wind; the winter’s bite could not sink its teeth in too deeply. Yet, from time to time, my bones shivered, my teeth chattered. The mango grove was not entirely silent. The leaves seemed restless, whispering among themselves; in the darkness, my hearing had sharpened, and I could make out their voices. Once, above my head, a bird—perhaps an owl—flew off with a harsh screech, perhaps having spotted me in the tree. Glancing up, I saw two or four stars peeking through the gaps