Eleven

The next morning, I woke up late. Hurrying to the sitting room, I found Byomkesh writing a letter; Kestobabu was nowhere to be seen. I asked, “Where’s the hunter?”

Byomkesh looked up with a smile and said, “He slipped away before dawn.”

No doubt, recalling in the morning all that he had revealed under the influence of drink last night, Kesto Das had decided to make himself scarce.

I settled myself on the divan. “Who are you writing to so early in the morning?”

Byomkesh handed me the letter and began composing another. I read:

Brother Romesh, Do you remember me after all these years? We studied together at Berhampore! The professors used to call me ‘bomb-case’. Does that ring a bell? I heard from someone named Nripen Dutta that you’re still living in your village. You know Nripen—he’s from your para. I want to know something about him. Surely you come to Calcutta from time to time. Why don’t you visit me at my place? I’m giving you the address. When will you come? Take my love.

Yours, Your old friend Byomkesh Bakshi

The second letter was addressed to Nimai and Nitai—

Nimaibabu, Nitaibabu, I have come to know about the third-floor room at Srikanta Panth Nibas. Come and see me at once, or else the police may get wind of this.

Byomkesh Bakshi

Byomkesh slipped both letters into envelopes, wrote the addresses, and called for Putiram. Putiram was about to leave for the market; Byomkesh handed him the two letters to post, then turned to me and said, “Come, we have to go out this morning.”

“Where to?”

“Do you remember the address of Dayalhari Majumdar’s house?”

“13/3, Ramtanu Lane, Shyambazar.”

Half an hour later, we set out. It took us some time to locate Ramtanu Lane in Shyambazar. The lane was narrow both in length and breadth, connecting two major roads on either side. We advanced, checking the house numbers as we went.

We had reached about the middle of the lane when suddenly, from a house at the far end, a man emerged and strode towards us like a storm. I recognized Prabhat. He passed by us without noticing, wild hair, flushed face and eyes; he swept past us like a blast of fire.

We raised our eyebrows and exchanged glances, then proceeded towards the door from which Prabhat had emerged. There was no longer any need to look for the number. Byomkesh murmured, “He had broken off with Anadi Halder… Now that Anadi is gone, Prabhat came back… but things didn’t go his way…”

The door of 13/3 was closed. We stood for a moment, hesitating, when from inside the house…

From within, a woman’s voice began to sing—a sweet, rounded, bewitching melody, accompanied by the rhythmic beat of the tabla.

Byomkesh knocked at the door. The singing ceased. An elderly man opened the door. A pair of hard, searching eyes swept over us from head to toe.

“What do you want?” The man’s figure was as gnarled as a twisted bamboo cane, and his voice was equally dry and abrasive, tinged with the accent of East Bengal.

Byomkesh said, “Is your name Dayalhari Majumdar?”

“Yes. What do you want?” There was no invitation to enter; instead, the householder gripped both door panels and blocked our way.

Byomkesh said, “Anadi Halder is dead. Perhaps you’ve heard. I want to ask you a few things about him—”

“Who is Anadi Halder? I don’t know him.” Dayalharibabu’s parched voice turned sharp.

“You don’t know? Your handnote was found in his almirah. You borrowed five thousand rupees from him.”

“Who says I borrowed money? Lies. I don’t owe a single paisa to anyone.”

“I saw your signature on the handnote with my own eyes.”

“A forged signature.” With a loud slam, the door was shut in our faces.

We stood for a moment before the closed door, then turned and walked away. Behind us, the singing and accompaniment resumed—Bhairavi, in a single beat.

As we walked toward the tram road, Byomkesh gave a weary smile. “Dayalhari Majumdar is no ordinary man. Now that he knows Anadi Halder is dead, he’s thinking he’ll get away with the five thousand rupees. The signature on the handnote may not be his usual one—he’s probably twisted and disguised it, so if the matter goes to court, he can deny it. But that’s not the real issue; the question is, why did Anadi Halder lend him five thousand rupees?”

I said, “Perhaps Anadi Halder was in the moneylending business.”

“Even so, would he lend five thousand rupees, cash in hand, without any security? Was Anadi Halder such a fool? If you saw a monkey singing or a stone floating on water, perhaps then you’d believe it.”

“Then what could it be?”

“I don’t know. But I must find out. Do you know what I suspect?”

“What?”

Byomkesh opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. He looked up at the sky and said, “Illusions at every turn.”

After that, I asked no more questions.

That evening, we set out again. This time, our destination was Prabhat’s shop.

As we neared the shop, I saw Batul Sardar walking ahead of us among a group of men. When he reached Prabhat’s shop, Batul slowed down, as if intending to enter. But before stepping inside, he turned his head and glanced back. Our eyes met. Instantly, Batul resumed walking straight ahead.

I glanced sidelong at Byomkesh. His brows were furrowed, the bones of his jaw set hard. I murmured, “Is Batul trying to make Prabhat his next customer?”

Byomkesh Samagra

“Is it?”

Byomkesh made a sound deep in his throat.

We entered the shop.

There were no customers; only Prabhat sat at the counter, his elbow resting, his hand pressed to his forehead. His face was not clearly visible. At the sound of our footsteps, he looked up. His eyes were red as hibiscus flowers. For a moment he stared at us with unrecognizing eyes, then