Three

The next morning, after finishing the newspaper, Byomkesh paced restlessly for a while, then said, “Nothing to do, so let’s roast some puffed rice. Come, let’s go pay Anadi Halder a visit. We met the nephews, but not the uncle—that wouldn’t look good.” I said, “You asked the nephews for the uncle’s address. What will you ask the uncle?” Byomkesh smiled, “Something will come to mind.” Around half past nine, we set out. I hadn’t known the numbering of Bowbazar ran from one end to the other, so we were heading towards Sealdah, checking the numbers as we went. After a while, we ran into Batul Sardar on the footpath. Byomkesh asked, “Well, Batul, does this neighborhood fall under your territory too?” Batul only grinned with his oily face, then shot back with a question of his own, “What brings you gentlemen to this part of town?”

Byomkesh Samagra

“Karta? Do you need something?” Byomkesh replied, “Yes. —Can you tell me where 172/2 is?” A sudden flicker of caution flashed in Batul’s eyes. Then, regaining his composure, he said, “172/2? That’s right next to the new house under construction.” We resumed our walk. After a short distance, I glanced back and saw Batul still standing on the footpath, staring intently at us. When he saw me turn, he quickly set off in the opposite direction. I said, “Hey Byomkesh, Batul—” He replied, “I noticed. He probably knows them.” A little further on, we found ourselves in front of the new house. Bamboo scaffolding encircled the structure, masons busy at their masonry. The roof of the first floor was already poured; the walls of the second were rising, brick by brick. A massive signboard out front bore the contractor’s name: Gurudutt Singh. Most likely a Sikh. Beyond the house, a narrow brick-paved lane. Across it stood 172/2—a two-storied house, with a slender strip of veranda beside the main door, above which ran a similar balcony, hemmed in by a railing. On the lower veranda sat a frail, silver-haired old man, drawing on a battered hookah. As we approached, he glanced at us sidelong, lips never leaving the stem. Byomkesh asked, “Is this Anadi Halder’s residence?” The old man pulled his lips from the hookah’s mouthpiece and snapped, “Who’s Anadi Halder? How should I know! This is my house—I live on the ground floor.” Byomkesh said politely, “And upstairs?” The old man, still irritable, replied, “How should I know! Go look for yourself. Anadi Halder! Always—” He clamped his lips back on the hookah. Why the old man had suddenly grown so surly, I could not fathom. We wasted no more words and stepped inside. The room was long and narrow, with a door on one side—likely the entrance to the ground floor—and on the other, a staircase rising upward. We hesitated at the foot of the stairs, uncertain whether to ascend, when suddenly heavy footsteps thudded above. Looking up, we saw a towering, broad-shouldered Sardarji rounding the bend and descending.