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