Four

A few days passed.

Nanibala did not return. The matter concerning Prabhat seemed to have withered away before it could take root. Only Batul from the sadar came by once. Batul had brought a revolver, hoping to sell it to us. Had the price been reasonable, we might have considered it, but we had no desire to buy trouble for six hundred rupees. Byomkesh offered Batul a cigarette and steered the conversation elsewhere.

‘Do you know anyone at 172/2 Bowbazar Street, Batul?’

‘Yes, sir, I do.’

‘Do you know Halidar?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Is he—well—one of your clients?’

Adimriphu 447

Batul smiled faintly, carefully extinguished his half-burnt cigarette and tucked it into his pocket, then spoke in a graver tone, “Anadi Halder used to pay his dues, but for the past few months he has stopped. Now, if anything good or bad happens to him, we bear no responsibility. —But how did you come to know him? Did you have any prior acquaintance?”

“No, we met only recently.”

Batul did not press his curiosity any further. Instead, he left us with an irrelevant proverb, delivered in a slow, deliberate manner as he took his leave—“It is not wise, sir, to quarrel with a crocodile while living in the water.”

The day of Kali Puja arrived. From early morning, the air was thick with the thunderous sound of drums. Whether these were the rhythms of festivity or the war-drums of a looming battle, we could not say for certain, and so we stayed indoors.

After dusk, the city gleamed with rows of lamps. In every street and alley, fireworks began to burst—tubri, atashbaji, fanush, colored torches, and the relentless crackle of Chinese firecrackers and dodoma. Crowds of people poured out to witness the city’s splendor—some on foot, others in carriages or motorcars. The sword of communal riots hung overhead, but who cared for that? Life is short; why not laugh for a day or two?

We did not step outside, but watched the festivities from our window. If anyone were to mock us as cowards for this, we would not object. But to dance in foolish joy with a garland around our necks like a sacrificial goat—that we could never accept.

Night deepened. At midnight, Kali Puja would reach its peak; the festivities were in full swing. We were not worshippers of Shakti, but of intellect—yet we had no wish to incur the displeasure of Mother Kali. That night, after partaking of mahaprasad with polao, we retired to bed.

Little did we know that before the night ended, the matter that had been lying in wait would rear its head again, like a serpent.

I awoke abruptly at half past three. The world was silent, a chill breeze drifted in through the window. I pulled the quilt up from the foot of the bed and wrapped myself, preparing to drift off once more, when a violent noise shattered my drowsiness.

Someone was banging furiously at the door. Sitting up in bed, I thought—the battlefront has reached our very doorstep; there is no escape tonight. The heavy stick stood ready in the corner of the room; I gripped it tightly and stepped out of the bedroom. If I must die, let me die fighting.

Byomkesh, too, emerged from his room, stick in hand. The front door was sturdy, but it would not hold much longer; it would give way at any moment. We stood on either side of the door, sticks raised.

The pounding stopped for a moment, and in that brief pause, we heard an urgent voice—“O Byomkesh Babu—please open the door—just once—”

We stared at each other, eyes wide. A man’s voice, oddly familiar.

Byomkesh called out, “Who are you? State your name.”

The reply came—“It’s me—Kesto Das—please open the door quickly—”

Kesto Das! For a moment, the name eluded me, then I remembered. Kesto Babu from Anadi Halder’s house!

Byomkesh asked, “What brings you here at this hour? Who is with you?”

“No one, I am alone—”

Only one man was making so much noise. My suspicion was not dispelled. Byomkesh asked again,

“What brings you here so late at night?”

“Anadi Halder has been murdered. Please, open the door. I am in great trouble.”

Stunned, I exchanged another glance with Byomkesh. Anadi Halder—!

Byomkesh hesitated no longer; he opened the door. Kestobabu staggered into the room. His appearance was disheveled, his face anxious like a startled bhetki fish. On top of that, his breath reeked sharply of liquor. He collapsed heavily into a chair and, panting, said, “Someone shot Anadi dead. I swear I know nothing about it. I wasn’t at home—”

Byomkesh raised a hand. “We’ll get to that later. First, answer my question. How did you know me? Where did you get my address?”

Kestobabu sat hunched for a while, a damp-cat look about him. At last, in a slurred voice, he said, “That day you came to our house, seeing you made me suspicious. So, when you left, I followed you. Here, at the hotel downstairs, I learned your identity.”

Byomkesh regarded him with steady eyes for a moment, then said, “Hmm. You’re a sharp fellow, I see. Why do you cling to Anadi Halder’s coattails?”

Kestobabu replied, “Anadi and I are childhood friends—fallen on hard times—that’s why—”

“So Anadi Halder fed you, clothed you, even supplied you with money for drink. That’s what I’d call a deep friendship. Well, tell me what happened tonight. Start from the beginning.”

Kestobabu stared at Byomkesh, unblinking, then said in a slightly plaintive tone, “You seem to know everything already. But I swear I didn’t kill Anadi. This evening—well, yesterday evening, I quarreled with Anadi. I told him, today is Kali Puja, you must give me fifty rupees. That started a furious argument. Anadi gave me ten rupees and said—take this and get out, and don’t ever set foot in my house again.”

“Who heard you quarrel?”

“Nanibala and Napa were at home. Shasthibabu from downstairs heard it