Two

Byomkesh listened with closed eyes to Nonibala’s rambling, wordy tale; when she finished, he opened his eyes. Suppressing his irritation, he said as politely as possible, “Miss Ray, what can I do in such a matter? Even if your suspicions are correct, I cannot follow your son around like an armed guard. I think, under the circumstances, it would be best to go to the police.”

Nonibala replied, “I mentioned the police to Anadibabu, and he flew into a rage; he said—there’s no need to stir up trouble over this, and if you’re so afraid for your lives, go back to Patna.”

Byomkesh said, “Then what else do you suggest should be done?”

Nonibala’s voice grew tremulous, on the verge of tears. “What can I say, Byomkesh-babu? Please, find some way. I have no one but Prabhat—I'm a helpless woman—” and with that, she dabbed at her eyes with the end of her sari.

Though no one, seeing Nonibala’s appearance, would ever mistake her for a helpless woman, still, her...

Byomkesh Samagra

It must be admitted that the heart in question is that of a helpless woman. She loves her adopted son as dearly as if he were her own flesh and blood, and, fearing misfortune for him, she has become excessively anxious. Perhaps her fears are unfounded, but even so, they cannot be dismissed.

For a while, Byomkesh watched Nanibala’s tearful outpouring with a look of irritation. Suddenly, in a harsh voice, he asked, “Where do the two nephews stay?”

Nanibala lifted her hopeful eyes from the edge of her sari. “They live under the lemon tree. Are you—?”

“What’s the address? What number?”

“That I don’t know—Prabhat knows. Are you going to see them, Byomkesh Babu? If you scold them properly, they’ll be frightened—”

“If I go to scold them, they might end up scolding me instead. I just want to see them once. If I see them, I’ll be able to guess if they’re hiding something. Prabhat knows their address? What’s Prabhat’s address—meaning, your house address?”

“House number 172/2, Bowbazar Street. But there—it's better if you don’t go to the house. Anadibabu—”

“Anadibabu might not like it. Very well, then. Tell me the address of Prabhat’s shop.”

“Prabhat’s shop—I don’t know the address—but the name is Jiban-Prabhat. It’s near Gol Dighi, there’s a big signboard hanging over the door—”

Byomkesh stood up, and in a tired, dry voice said, “I understand. You may go now. If there’s any news, you’ll hear of it.”

Nanibala, perhaps a little hurt, took her leave. Byomkesh glanced up at the rafters and murmured, “How strange you are, O world, how endlessly strange your forms!”

That evening, Byomkesh was idly leafing through a Puja annual when, all at once, he tossed the magazine aside and said, “Let’s go out for a bit.”

Since the outbreak of the great war, we had stopped going out after dusk, unless absolutely necessary. I asked, “Where do you want to go?”

He replied, “In search