At the thana, Inspector Barat greeted us with a smile. “Finished with the account book already?”

Byomkesh replied, “There’s only a year and a half’s worth of accounts in this book—meaning Pranahari started a new ledger after coming here.”

Barat asked, “Did you find anything?”

Byomkesh said, “Nothing that sheds light on the murder. But there’s a small detail that bothers me.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Pranahari had an arrangement with a taxi driver—he would bring him from home every day and drop him back again. Surely there was a monthly payment for this service. But in the ledger, I see the exact opposite. Here, look at the book.” Byomkesh opened the ledger and showed it to me.

On each page, side by side, were columns for credits and expenses. In the expenses column, entries went down to a single paisa or two, but most days the credit column was empty. Occasionally, there was a note of interest deposited by some debtor. Byomkesh pointed with his finger, “Look here, on the 3rd of Magh, under credits, it says: Taxi driver, thirty-five rupees. It’s the same every month. But under expenses, there’s no mention of any payment for the taxi.”

“Perhaps, by mistake, the expense was written in the credit column.”

“Every month, the same mistake?”

“Hm. What do you think?”

“I can’t say. There’s no record here of gambling winnings or losses either. Doesn’t it all seem a bit mysterious to you?”

“It certainly does. What can be done about it?”

Byomkesh thought for a moment and said, “If we could find the taxi driver who used to ferry Pranahari, we could question him. Do you know him?”

Barat replied, “No, I never thought to look for him. Let’s do one thing—let’s send for Bhuban Das. He should be able to help.”

“Bhuban Das?”

“The taxi driver who took those four to Pranahari’s house that night—his name is Bhubaneshwar Das.”

“Oh—can we find him?”

“The taxi stand is nearby. I’ll send for him.”

Fifteen minutes later, Bhubaneshwar Das arrived, saluted, and stood before us. He was of medium build, dressed in khaki trousers and shirt, a cap on his head like a guard’s. Age—about thirty or thirty-two. His eyes were reddish, his face grave. I wondered if the man was under the influence.

Barat nodded at Byomkesh, signaling him to proceed. Byomkesh looked Bhuban Das up and down, then began his questions.

“Your name is Bhuban Das. You were in the military?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A sepoy?”

“No, sir, a truck driver.”

“How long have you been driving a taxi?”

“Three or four years.”

“All three or four years here?”

“No, sir, I’ve been here about a year and a half. Before that, I was in Calcutta.”

“Where is your home?”

“Medinipur district, Bhagabanpur village.”

“You took four people to Pranahari Poddar’s house that day?”

“Not to the house, sir—some distance away from it.”

“All right. While they were in your taxi, did they talk among themselves?”

Bhuban Das hesitated a moment, then said, “They did. I didn’t pay attention to everything they said.”

Byomkesh asked, “Do you remember anything?”

Bhuban Das fell silent for a moment, then replied, “I think they were talking about some woman. They were speaking in hushed voices—I couldn’t hear clearly.”

Byomkesh said, “All right, let it be. Tell me, did any of your four passengers have a weapon in hand?”

“One of them had a cane.”

“And none of the others had anything?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“Do you take intoxicants?”

“No, sir,” Bhuban Das replied, casting a sidelong, sardonic glance at Inspector Barat.

“Where do you live in the city?”

“I have no home. At night, I sleep in the car.”

“The car is your own?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You must know other taxi drivers in the city.”

“I do, but I don’t mingle much.”

“Can you tell us whose taxi Pranahari Poddar used to take to and from the city?”

It seemed a glint of amusement flickered in Bhuban Das’s bloodshot eyes. Yet he answered in a grave tone, “Sir, it was my taxi.”

We stared at him in surprise. Then Barat demanded sharply, “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

Bhuban replied, “You never asked, sir.”

Byomkesh suppressed a smile and drew a cigarette from his pocket. My experience with the fraternity of taxi drivers is not vast, but I have observed that they are a taciturn breed, sparing with words unless a quarrel over fare arises—then it is a different matter.

Byomkesh said, “So you knew Pranahari Poddar from before?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What kind of man was he?”

“He was a good man, sir, never once failed to pay his fare.” To Bhuban, this was the ultimate mark of virtue.

“He paid you cash every day?”

“No, sir, we had a monthly arrangement.”

“How much was the monthly fare?”

“Thirty-five rupees.”

Byomkesh exchanged a glance with Barat, then said to Bhuban, “Tell me everything you know about Pranahari Poddar.”

Bhuban said, “I don’t know much, sir. He had an office in the city. About a year ago, he called me and proposed hiring the taxi on a monthly basis—I agreed. Since then, I would bring him from home in the morning and drop him back in the evening. At the start of each Bengali month, he would summon me to his office and settle the fare. That’s all I know about him.”

“You agreed to a monthly wage of only thirty-five rupees? Was there any profit in it?”

Kohen Kabikalidas 697

“There was a small profit. Since I was a regular renter, I agreed.”

Byomkesh sat with his eyes closed for a while, then asked, “Do you know if Pranahari Babu had any dealings with other taxi drivers?”

Bhuban replied, “Sir, I do not know.”

Byomkesh sighed and said, “Alright, you may go now. If you remember anything about Pranahari, let the Inspector know.”

“Yes, sir.” Bhuban Das saluted and left.

The three of us sat in silence for a while. Then Barat said,