Byomkesh had been to Cuttack on official work, I had accompanied him too. After a few days, it became evident that the task would not be accomplished quickly, that it would take time to rummage through a mountain of deeds and documents in the government office to unearth the truth. Accordingly, Byomkesh stayed on in Cuttack, while I returned to Calcutta. How could a Bengali household be expected to run without the presence of a man at home?

On my return to Calcutta, however, I had no work. I was feeling a little helpless in Byomkesh’s absence. Winter was setting in, the days were getting shorter; and yet the hours refused to pass. Occasionally I would visit the shop, supervise Prabhat, who ran the shop, read new manuscripts if any. But still there was nothing to do for most part of the day.

Then an opportunity to pass the evenings presented itself unexpectedly.

We lived in a three-storied building, occupying five rooms on the top floor, while a dozen or so office goers messed together on the first floor. On the ground floor were the manager’s room, the pantry, the kitchen and the dining room, with just one corner room being occupied by a solitary boarder. We were familiar with all of them, but not particularly intimate with any.

That evening, I had just switched on the light after darkness had fallen and opened a magazine when there was a knock on the door. Opening the door, I discovered a middle-aged gentleman standing outside, smiling deferentially. I had seen him once or twice on the first floor of our building, where he had taken up residence recently. He occupied the best corner room on the floor all by himself. He appeared to be a man of refined tastes, being dressed in a warm Nehru jacket and a silk churidar, his hair more black than white. He was well turned out.

Greeting me, he said, ‘Excuse me, my name is Bhupesh Chatterjee. I live on the first floor.’

‘I’ve seen you now and then,’ I replied, ‘though I was not familiar with your name. Do come in.’

I gave him a seat in my room. ‘I came to Calcutta a month-and-a-half ago. I work for an insurance company; there’s no telling where I’ll be next. Tomorrow they might transfer me somewhere else altogether, for all you know.’

‘You work for an insurance company,’ I said with some unease. ‘But I have never taken out a policy, nor am I planning to.’

‘That’s not what I came for,’ he smiled. ‘It’s true that I work at the insurance office, but I’m not an agent. I came because …’ After an awkward pause, he said, ‘I’m addicted to bridge. I haven’t had a game ever since I came here, I’m dying for one. After much effort I’ve managed to find two more players. They live in Room No. 3 on the first floor. But we haven’t been able to find a fourth. We tried cutthroat bridge for a few days, but it isn’t the real thing. I thought I’d find out today whether Ajit-babu is interested.’

I was indeed interested in bridge once upon a time. Not merely interested, obsessed. Since I had not played for a long time, the obsession had died. Still, I felt that playing bridge was preferable to passing my companionless evenings reading a dull magazine.

‘Very well, very well,’ I said. ‘I am long out of practice, of course, but still—why not?’

‘Then come with me,’ said Bhupesh-babu, springing to his feet. ‘I have made all the arrangements in my room. Why waste time?’

‘Please lead the way, I’ll follow as soon as I’ve had my cup of tea,’ I said.

‘Oh no, you can just as well have your tea in my room. Come along,’ he replied.

I was amused by his eagerness. I used to be just as enthusiastic once upon a time; the evenings seemed wasted without a game of bridge.

I got off my chair. Informing Byomkesh’s wife Satyabati, I accompanied Bhupesh-babu downstairs.

The first room when you went down the stairs to the first floor was Bhupesh-babu’s. Pausing near his door, he called out loudly, ‘Come along, Ram-babu, Banamali-babu. I’ve got hold of Ajit-babu.’

Two heads popped out of Room No. 3, which was situated halfway down the corridor, then disappeared with the word, ‘Coming.’ Bhupesh-babu took me into his room and switched on the light.

It was a commodious room. There were two barred windows on the wall looking out on the road. On one side of the room was the bed, covered with a bedspread, on the other was a cupboard, on top of which reposed a shining portable stove and everything you needed to make a cup of tea. Four chairs were arranged around a low table in the middle of the room; it was clearly a card table. Besides these, the other small items of furniture, including a dressing table and a chest of drawers, all indicated good taste. Bhupesh-babu was slightly Western in his tastes.

Settling me in a chair, he said, ‘Let me put the kettle on, the tea will be ready in a few minutes.’

Lighting the stove, he put the kettle on. Meanwhile, Ram-babu and Banamali-babu had arrived.

Despite our prior acquaintance, Bhupesh-babu introduced all of us once more. ‘This is Ramchandra Roy, and this is Banamali Chanda. They live in the same room and work at the same bank.’

I observed other similarities too; I had not noticed them earlier, possibly because I had not seen them together. Both were aged between forty-five and fifty, both were plump and of medium height, their features cut in the same mould—a thick nose, invisible eyebrows, a square chin. The resemblance was obviously genetic. I was tempted to surprise them. After all, I was a friend of Byomkesh’s.

‘Are you related?’ I asked.

They looked at me in surprise. ‘No,’ answered Ram-babu a little brusquely. ‘I’m a