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. Our suspicions about Anadi Halder’s residence were somewhat allayed—this could only be contractor Gurudutt Singh. He wore velvet corduroy trousers and a gabardine coat, his beard plaited, a tight-fitting turban on his head. He swung his arms like clubs as he came down, his eyes rolling. As he drew closer, the words muffled in his beard and mustache reached our ears. The language was not Bengali, but the meaning was clear enough—“These Bengalis won’t pay me! Let’s see how great this Anadi Halder is, I’ll wring his neck and get my money. I’m a Punjabi too, no one can mess with me—” The Sardarji swept past and was gone. Byomkesh glanced at me and smiled faintly. In a low voice, he said, “It seems Anadi Babu is not a popular man. Come, let’s see.” At the top of the stairs was a door, bolted from within. Byomkesh knocked. After a moment, the door opened a crack, and a face appeared in the gap. A face like a bhetki fish, eyes bloodshot, the lower lids sagging and loose.

Adimriphu 443

Between the slack lips, the lower row of teeth was visible. Had I encountered this face at night, in such a state, I cannot say what I would have done; but now, for a moment, I started and stood still. Byomkesh said, “Anadibabu—?”

A smile broke out on the face, exposing even more of the many teeth in the jaw. In a broken, guttural voice, the bhekti fish said, “No, I am not Anadibabu, I am Kestobabu. Are you creditors too?”

“No, we have some business with Anadibabu.”

At this moment, another quick voice sounded from behind the bhekti fish—“Kestobabu, move aside, move aside—”

Kestobabu’s head withdrew, and in his place, a young man appeared at the doorway. A thin, sickly figure, with a long, pointed chin, and tightly curled hair that seemed to spread out on either side of his head like wings. There was a certain sharpness in his face.

“What do you want?”

“We wish to see Anadibabu.”

“Is there some business? Anadibabu does not meet anyone without reason.”

“There is indeed business. The house being built next door, I believe it belongs to him. We have some questions about that house. And you are—?”

“I am Anadibabu’s secretary. Please wait a moment, I’ll inform him. This way, come inside.”

We climbed the stairs and entered the room. The young man left.

The room was bare, furnished only with a rough wooden bench. We sat on the bench and looked around. Besides the stair door, there were a few other doors in the room; through one, the front balcony was visible, the other two led further inside.

After waiting a while, I saw one of the inner doors open slightly and a woman peered out. There was no mistaking her—Nonibala Devi. She must have been cooking, and, hearing the commotion of visitors, had come to check, ladle in hand. Seeing us, her eyes widened in alarm. Byomkesh put