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