In the morning, I awoke to find Byomkesh seated at the table, writing a letter with utmost concentration. Stretching and yawning, I asked, “Who are you writing to? Satyabati? Barely two days apart and already you’re pining for her?”

Byomkesh, still writing, replied, “Not longing—Bikash.”

“Bikash?”

“Yes—Bikash. Why are you writing to him?”

Byomkesh Samagra

“I’ve arranged a job for Bikash. A compounder’s position at the colliery’s dispensary. That’s why I’m writing to ask him to come.” “I see.” Byomkesh returned to his letter. He wanted to bring Bikash here and install him at the colliery, while he himself would remain at a distance, gathering intelligence about the mine. You stay in Dorapani and send a spy to Pola— At breakfast, I noticed Indira’s face was much brighter today; the clouds of doubt and anxiety had parted, and sunlight shimmered through. Phanish had told her of Byomkesh’s reassurances. Again, it was just the two of us at breakfast; both masters had long since left for work. Byomkesh, chewing on his toast, glanced sidelong at Indira and said, “You’re quite the child at heart.” Indira lowered her eyes in embarrassment; but soon enough, worry and fear returned to them. This girl’s mind was never free of anxiety for her husband; Byomkesh comforted her, saying, “Don’t worry, everything will turn out fine. We’re heading out now.” Indira looked up and asked, “Where are you going?” Byomkesh replied, “Oh, here and there. We’ll probably be back by noon. If your husband asks, tell him we’ve gone to see the city.” When breakfast was over, we rose. The motor driver came to announce the car was ready at the door. Once inside, Byomkesh instructed the driver, “First, to the post office.” At the post office, he affixed an express delivery ticket to his letter and handed it over, then returned to the car and said, “Now to the police station. The main station.” At the police station’s grand entrance, a constable stood guard. When Byomkesh requested an audience with the chief inspector, the constable produced a slip of paper and said, “Write your name and business—I’ll send word in.” Byomkesh wrote on the paper, “Gagan Mitra. Regarding Manish Chakraborty’s colliery.” A short while later, the constable returned and said, “Come in.” Inside, in a room, the uniformed inspector sat at his desk. As we entered, he looked up, then sprang to his feet and grasped Byomkesh’s hand, exclaiming, “What’s this! Since when have you become Gagan Mitra?” I recognized the voice at once—Promod Barat. A few years ago, we’d grown close for a time over the Golap Colony affair. A policeman’s life is a wandering one; in his wanderings, he’d become chief inspector at the city’s main station. His pitch-dark features had grown a bit heavier over the years, but the sharpness of his face had not dulled in the least. He welcomed us warmly and seated us. For a while, we reminisced about the past, then Byomkesh explained the reason for our visit to this city. Listening, Promodbabu said, “Hmm, the Phuljhuri Colliery case is in our files, but we couldn’t do much. These matters aren’t well suited to police work; we have to operate with too many men, and secrecy is impossible. But you—you’ll manage.” Byomkesh said, “Do you remember Bikash Dutta? I’ve called him here; he’ll stay at the colliery and look for leads.” Promodbabu replied, “Of course I remember Bikash. Smart fellow. If there’s anything I can do—”

Kahen Kabi Kalidas 685

Byomkesh said, “I haven’t come to you for that matter, Pramodbabu. Recently, there’s been a murder here—a certain old man named Pranahari Poddar—”

“You’ve heard about that too?”

“How could I not? The son of the man whose house we’re guests in is one of your suspects.”

Pramod Barat twisted his mouth into a pained expression and said, “I’m in a real fix, Byomkeshbabu. The four people under suspicion are all big shots in this city, men of immense influence. I have to tread very carefully. There are no witnesses, no solid proof—everything is circumstantial evidence. If I mistakenly arrest any one of them, it’ll be my own neck on the line.”

Byomkesh asked, “Among these four, whom do you suspect most?”

Pramodbabu pondered for a moment and said, “All four have equal motive, all four had the same opportunity. Still, I feel this is Aravind Halder’s doing.”

“Do you think the four of them could have acted together, committed the murder as a group?”

“No.”

“There was a maid in the house—have you considered her?”

“I have. She had the most opportunity, but I couldn’t find a motive.”

“Hm. Tell me everything you know—perhaps I can help you.”

“You’ll help? Thank you. To have your help would be a stroke of luck, Byomkeshbabu.”

Thereafter, what Pramod Barat recounted was this—

On the night Pranahari Poddar died, at around ten o’clock, a truck was coming from the direction of the Uludanga Colliery. The truck driver suddenly stopped his vehicle, because a woman was standing in the middle of the road, waving her hands and signaling him to halt. When the truck stopped, the woman ran up and said, “Quick, call the police! Someone has murdered the owner of this house.”

The truck driver went to the thana and gave the news. Within half an hour, Inspector Barat arrived at the scene with his men. The girl was still standing by the roadside, eyes wild with distress. Her name was Mohini, the only maid in Pranahari’s household—there were no other servants.

Inspector Barat went up to the second floor and saw the corpse; his subordinates searched the house thoroughly. There was no one else in the house. Questioning Mohini, they learned that she slept in a small room beside the kitchen on the ground floor; the master slept in an upstairs room. That evening, after returning from the city, he had sat in the downstairs room and taken tea, then gone upstairs. Mohini had begun cooking. Usually, after nine