‘I too climbed the stairs to the third-floor roof. The moment she saw me, Hena panicked, ran toward the parapet, and crashed against it. Then, unable to regain her balance, she toppled over and fell down. Perhaps, seeing me, she was afraid I would harm her!’

Byomkesh gazed at her intently and asked, ‘Why did you never mention this before?’

Shrimati Chameli made a restless gesture with her mouth and said, ‘Would anyone have believed me if I had? On the contrary, they would have suspected that I pushed Hena over.’

Byomkesh bowed his head for a moment, then looked up again. ‘True enough. Tell me, when you went up to the roof by the stairs, did you see Uday?’

Shrimati Chameli replied, her voice tinged with unease, ‘No, Uday was not there.’

‘Did you see anyone else?’

‘No, no one.’

‘The stair door, the door to the roof—they were open, I suppose?’

‘Yes, they were open.’

‘When you saw Hena, what was she doing?’

‘She was standing in the middle of the roof.’

‘Was there anything in her hand?’

‘I didn’t notice.’

Byomkesh exhaled deeply and stood up. He said, “I suppose you have nothing more to say. Very well, then—we’ll take our leave. You may try telling the police your story.”

Sreemati Chameli stood there, rigid and unmoving, as we took our leave.

By the time we returned home, it was already afternoon.

The intricate fiction Sreemati Chameli had spun to save her sons had only left Byomkesh more bewildered and despondent. He stretched himself out on the taktaposh, and in a voice rough with agitation, said, “Nothing is happening—nothing at all. It’s all a sham, all deception. Everyone is trying to pull the wool over my eyes.”

I said, “But why are you so invested, Byomkesh? The police have given up, Santoshbabu has lost interest—so why are you wearing yourself out for nothing?”

Byomkesh replied, his voice weary, “Do you know what the trouble is? I am a satyanweshi—a seeker of truth. Until I know the real story, I cannot find peace. Damn it! If only I had another case at hand right now, perhaps I could forget—”

At that moment, the postman arrived at the front door.

An envelope, registered and insured. The sender’s name—Office of the Government of Orissa. My curiosity was piqued—what could this be? Byomkesh opened the envelope and took out a typewritten letter.

The Chief Secretary of the Government of Orissa had written—

Dear Sir, By order of the Honorable Chief Minister, I write this letter to you. The work you have previously done for the Central Government and the Bombay Government is well known to us. Recently, some mysterious incidents have begun to occur in the offices of the Orissa Government. Valuable and highly confidential documents have been disappearing from the department, but the culprit remains at large. In this matter, the Government of Orissa seeks your assistance. We would be obliged if you could come to Cuttack at once and take charge of the investigation. Any delay may result in loss to the state. We would appreciate it if you could inform us by telegram when you will arrive. Enclosed please find a cheque for Rs 500 towards your expenses. With thanks and regards, etc.

Byomkesh, his face alight with cheer, handed me the letter and the cheque. “It seems my reputation has now reached the corridors of government,” he said.

After reading the letter, I looked up to see him pacing, hands clasped behind his back. I asked, “So, you got what you wanted. Will you go?”

“It’s a matter of national interest. Of course I’ll go.”

“When will you leave?”

He paused in his pacing and said, “Ajit, finish your meal, deposit the cheque at the bank, and send a telegram to Cuttack. We are leaving at once.”

I asked, “And when, exactly, is ‘at once’?”

He smiled and replied, “Within today or tomorrow.”

It was almost dusk when Bikash arrived and said, “There’s news, sir.”

I had quite forgotten that Bikash, along with Gupikesto, Babui, and Chiching—four young men—worked as informants for Byomkesh. My mind had already raced ahead to Cuttack.

We three sat close together on the takhtposh, shoulders nearly touching. Bikash said, “That Chinaman is giving us a lot of trouble, sir.”

“Chinaman?”

“Yes, your Ravi Verma. His nose, mouth, eyes—just like a Chinaman’s. I’m sure he sneaks around eating cockroaches.”

“Not impossible. Go on, how is he troubling you?”

“I’ve been tailing the man for days, but not once does he stray from his routine! No, it’s always home to office, office to home. I was getting worn out, sir. Then today—”

“What happened today?”

“Usually he leaves the office at five, but today he left at half past four. Didn’t go home, got on a bus to Bowbazar. I got on too. The man’s conscience is clearly guilty, kept glancing back over his shoulder. I kept my head down. Near Sealdah, Ravi Verma suddenly hopped off the bus. I followed.

“You may have noticed there’s a hotel there—called the Indo-Pak Hotel. Three stories, but a bit dingy. Mostly people coming and going from Pakistan stay there. There’s a restaurant on the ground floor, chicken and mutton always cooking, and rooms to stay in upstairs. Ravi Verma slipped into the hotel.

“There was a racket in the restaurant, but Ravi Verma didn’t go that way. He crept up a dark staircase at the side.

“I followed. Where the stairs turn from the second to the third floor, there’s a narrow corridor like an alley, lined with doors on both sides. A smoky bulb hung overhead. From the bend in the stairs, I peeked and saw Ravi Verma unlocking a door at the far end with a key. But the door wouldn’t open. Then he picked another key from his bunch and tried again, but still the lock wouldn’t budge.

“At that moment, footsteps sounded above—two or three tenants were coming down the stairs. I