FOUR

Leaving the house and walking towards the gate, last night’s events came to mind. Dr. Palit’s anxious, searching eyes had followed Shakuntala. He was an experienced doctor; what escaped others’ notice, he had observed. But why had I seen such a shadow of worry and doubt in his eyes? What was he anxious about?

Outside the gate, the doctor was about to get into his car, then—

He returned to us, thoughtful, and said to Pandeyji, “Dipnarayan Babu died by my hand. If you wish to arrest me, I have nothing to say. Now I must go to see my patients. Summon me to the thana whenever you wish, I will present myself.”

Pandeyji said nothing, only smiled a little. The doctor nodded, climbed into his motorcar, and, starting the engine, departed.

Pandeyji glanced at his wristwatch and said, “It’s not yet half past ten. Come, let us go to my house.”

We were about to get into the car when another motorcar pulled up and stopped. An old, rattling Morris, from which alighted the young Dr. Jagannath Prasad. Seeing us, he made a snorting sound, then, frowning at Pandeyji, said, “You here so early in the morning?”

Jagannath spoke lightly, “I was passing this way to see a patient, thought I’d drop in to see Dipnarayanji. How is he?”

Pandeyji replied in an icy, hard voice, “You know very well how he is. Is there any need for this pretense?”

For a moment, Dr. Jagannath was taken aback, then, baring his teeth in an uncivil grin, said, “So what I heard is true—Pannalal Palit gave Dip Babu an injection and killed him.”

Pandeyji, with great effort to control himself, answered in a measured tone, “Dipnarayan Babu is dead. How he died is none of your concern, you are not this house’s doctor. The house is now under police control. Do not attempt to enter without Inspector Ratikanta Chowdhury’s permission.”

Jagannath cast a bold glance at us and said, “I see you too have joined the ranks of the Bengalis. Join if you must, but if you fall ill, don’t go to a Bengali doctor. Remember Dip Babu’s example.”

Before Pandeyji could reply, Jagannath climbed into his own car and, with a rattle and roar, drove away.

I had never seen Pandeyji angry before; now I saw his fair face flush with rage. He made a strangled sound in his throat and got into the car. We followed.

Within ten minutes we reached Pandeyji’s house. He ordered tea, for in the western chill there is no fixed hour for tea-drinking. Then we went to the baithak-khana and took our seats. Pandeyji asked, “What do you think?”

Byomkesh said, “It is murder, certainly—not an accident. The person who did this is extremely cunning. Now the question is, who profits from Dipnarayan Singh’s death?”

Pandeyji replied, “Only Debnarayan stands to gain. Dipnarayan has died without a son, so all the property now goes to him.”

Byomkesh said, “Whether he died without