Seventeen

The three of us sat in our baithak-khana. Prabhat and I took the chairs; Byomkesh sat cross-legged on the taktaposh, the bag of books beside him. It was nearly two in the morning; outside, the city’s murmur had faded into silence.

Byomkesh’s face was grave, tinged with melancholy. He glanced up at Prabhat with a look of stern reproach; but Prabhat’s face bore no trace of guilt. The shock and fear that had overwhelmed him at the moment of his capture had vanished. Now he seemed entirely composed, ready for whatever might come.

Byomkesh drew the books out of the bag, one by one. Bound in brown board, they were not much to look at from the outside. But when Byomkesh opened their pages, a sudden thrill nearly took my breath away. Every single page of every book was a one-hundred-rupee note.

Byomkesh examined each book in turn, then set them aside, and asked Prabhat,

'How much are all the books worth in total?'

Prabhat replied, 'About two lakhs. I have spent some of it.'

'Apart from the money you gave Dayalhari Majumdar, did you spend anything else?'

A flicker of surprise flashed in Prabhat’s eyes; the question of how Byomkesh knew so much seemed to peer out from his gaze. But he asked nothing, merely said, 'There were some other expenses, altogether fourteen or fifteen thousand.'

Byomkesh then placed his hand upon the books and said in a calm voice, 'Prabhatbabu, was it for these that you killed Anadi Halder?'

Prabhat shook his head firmly. 'No, Byomkeshbabu.'

'Then will you tell me why you did it?'

Prabhat opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again without a word.

Byomkesh said, 'If you won’t say it, then I shall. —Anadi Halder broke off your engagement to Shiuli and wanted to marry her himself. That was the reason—am I right?'

For a while, Prabhat sat with his head buried in his chest. When he finally looked up, the veins in his temples stood out. The savagery I had noticed in the set of his teeth became starkly visible as he spoke, his voice choked, 'Yes. Anadi Halder bribed Shiuli’s father with five thousand rupees to make him agree—' He broke off there, sitting in silence, as if swelling with the fire within.

Byomkesh said, 'So my guess was correct. —But why did you try to kill Kestobabu?'

Forgetting his anger, Prabhat looked at Byomkesh in astonishment. 'What! Kestobabu? I know nothing about him!'

Byomkesh pierced Prabhat with a gaze bristling with suspicion. 'You didn’t kill Kesto Das?'

Prabhat replied, 'No, Byomkeshbabu. In the past eight months, Kestobabu took eight thousand rupees from me. When I heard he was dead, I was glad; but I did not kill him. Believe me, if I had, I would not deny it to you now.'

Byomkesh’s face gradually brightened, the gloom that had shrouded his mind like a mist seemed to lift. He said, 'But then, who killed Kesto Das?'

'I don’t know. But—' Prabhat hesitated.

'But?'

Prabhat said a little awkwardly, 'Ten or twelve days ago, Batul Sardar came to see me. You probably don’t know Batul—'

'I know him well. In fact, I know the nature of your connection with him too. Go on.'

'Batul started asking me about Kestobabu; who he was, what he knew about Anadibabu’s death, all that. I told Batul everything. After that—'

Byomkesh broke into a smile and said, 'Ah, now I understand. Kesto Das’s hunger for money was not satisfied by blackmailing you, so he tried to blackmail Batul as well. Greed destroys the weaver.' Byomkesh called out, 'Putiram!'

Putiram came and stood near the inner doorway. Byomkesh said, 'Putiram, can you bring three cups of tea?'

Adimriphu 501

Putiram said, “Sir, there’s no milk.”

Byomkesh replied, “No matter. Brew the tea with ginger, then. And have you set the coal tongs right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now you may light the fire.”

When Putiram had left, Byomkesh said, “Prabhatbabu, your mother—Nonibala Devi—she doesn’t know anything, does she?”

“No, sir.” Prabhat gazed at Byomkesh for a moment, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and confusion, then said, “Have you found out everything, Byomkeshbabu?”

Byomkesh paused for a moment before replying, “I believe I have. But one can never be sure—there may be some errors. For instance, I had placed the blame for Kesto Das’s death upon your shoulders. I should have realized, the knife is not your weapon.”

I said, “Byomkesh, tell us how you figured it all out, will you? I still don’t understand a thing.”

Byomkesh said, “Very well, I’ll tell you. I had understood who killed Anadi Halder even before I left for Patna. But at the time I thought, since no one seems to care about Anadi Halder’s death, why should I trouble myself over it? But when I returned and saw that Kesto Das had also been murdered, I could no longer remain silent. A man who solves all his problems by killing others must be stopped. However, now I see I was mistaken—Prabhatbabu did not kill Kesto Das. I am relieved of a grave duty. Now, listen to the story. Prabhatbabu, if I make any mistakes, please correct me.”

Byomkesh began to recount the tale of Anadi Halder. With astonishment, I realized today’s situation was entirely new. Byomkesh was sitting in his own baithak-khana, narrating the story of the murder to the killer himself, as if to a friend—such a thing had never happened before.

“During the last war, Anadi Halder made a great deal of money on the black market. Perhaps two and a half, maybe three lakhs. Prabhatbabu, how many books did you bind?”

Prabhat replied, “Two. Each had four hundred notes.”

“So, two lakh forty thousand. Let us assume Anadi Halder made close to three lakhs in black money. The question arose—where would he keep it? He couldn’t deposit it in a bank, or the income tax bloodhounds would be at his throat.