I t was around ten-thirty in the morning; I was toying with the idea of getting up to take a shower when suddenly the telephone rang in the next room. Byomkesh got up and took the call. I could hear him say, ‘Hello, who is that? Bidhubabu? Oh, good morning. How are you? How are things? I beg your pardon? Oh, really? I have to go? Well, all right... what is the address? Fine, I’ll be there in about half an hour.’

Byomkesh came out of the room fastening the buttons on his kurta and said, ‘Come on, let’s go visiting. There’s been a murder. Bidhubabu has called for us.’

I stood up and asked, ‘Which Bidhubabu, the Deputy Commissioner?’

Byomkesh smiled and said, ‘Yes, the same. I don’t know who I owe this honour to. It was very apparent from his tone that he hasn’t called me of his own choice. Orders from above is more like it.’

We had come to know the Deputy Commissioner of Police, Bidhubabu, in the course of our work. He was an ostentatious person who subjected us to bombastic lectures every time we met. He would try, in various ways, to indicate that Byomkesh was his subordinate in both intelligence and expertise. Byomkesh would listen to his declamations in the humblest of manners and laugh quietly in his sleeve. Very often Bidhubabu let slip a lot of secret information from the police files in the course of charting out his own sterling qualities and excellence. So, whenever he needed any information regarding the police, Byomkesh would present himself before Bidhubabu and take in a dose of his bombast.

Bidhubabu had probably not been particulary dull in his younger days. The commitment and enthusiasm he still had was remarkable for a man of his age. But trapped in the monotony of routine police work, his brain had been rendered incapable of anything other than mechanical functioning. In his absence his colleagues referred to him as ‘Budhhubabu’— Mr Stupid.

Anyway, we had a quick breakfast and set off. It took us about twenty minutes to reach our destination by bus. The place was in north Calcutta, in the heart of a prosperous residential area. As we were looking for the numbers on the doors, we noticed two constables standing before a house and warily stroking their moustaches. It was evident that this was the scene of the crime.

The constables stood aside when Byomkesh told them who he was. We walked in. From outside the two-storeyed house had appeared small, but inside it was quite spacious and well furnished, indicating that the owner was well-to-do. Large decorative palms stood in clay pots, gracing the hallway. Some goldfish were frolicking in a giant aquarium. The hallway led on three sides to rooms attached with balconies. Facing the entrance, on the fourth side of the hallway, was the staircase leading upstairs.

We gravitated towards a room to the right where a lot of people were milling around. In the centre of the room, the colossal Bidhubabu, complete with his greying moustache, sat at a table frowning away with all his might. The servant had already been interrogated. It was now the turn of the cook. The man, nearly in tears, stood answering Bidhubabu’s sharp questions and jumping out of his skin every time he was snapped at. A few subordinate police officers stood around them.

On spotting us, the look of displeasure deepened on Bidhubabu’s face. ‘So you are here, ‘ he said. ‘Have a seat. It’s nothing much—a murder, nothing complicated. There are clear indications as to who has done it. The warrant too has been issued. But the chief ordered that you be called in— so... ‘ He cleared his throat loudly and continued, ‘Ours not to question why—since you’re here, you might as well take a look, although there is nothing to look at, really.’

Byomkesh said, ‘Sir, since you yourself have taken charge, what can I have to contribute afresh? But since the Commissioner himself has given the order, I shall stay around and assist you if I may. But what is going on? Who has been murdered?’

Flattery can move mountains. Bidhubabu’s countenance softened visibly and he said, ‘Karalibabu, who is the master of this house, was murdered in his sleep last night. The mode of killing is a little unusual, so the chief is quite perplexed. But actually it is quite simple—Motilal, one of Karalibabu’s nephews, has done the deed and absconded immediately.’

Bent almost double with meekness, Byomkesh said, ‘A man of my limited calibre cannot quite grasp the matter unless it is explained to him in great detail. Could you possibly go over the entire story for me, please?’

The cloud of discontent vanished entirely from Bidhubabu’s face. He smiled pompously and said, ‘Just wait a second while I finish taking this fellow’s testimony. Then I shall explain it all to you.’

The cook was still trembling, rooted to his spot; Bidhubabu bellowed at him, ‘Be careful and watch what you say. One fib from you and the handcuffs go on—is that clear?’

The cook answered faintly, ‘Yes, sir.’

Bidhubabu continued with the unfinished interrogation, ‘What time was it when you saw Motilal leave the house last night?’

‘I... I didn’t look at the clock, sir, but it was one or two o’clock.’

‘Be specific! Was it one or two?’

‘Sir, it was around twelve or one in the night.’

‘Make up your mind!’ Bidhubabu roared, ‘Tell me once and for all—was it midnight or one o’clock or two o’clock?’

The cook gulped and said, ‘It was midnight, sir.’

The officer rapidly noted the statement down.

‘He tiptoed out like a thief, did he?’

‘Well, yes sir ... you see, he stays out most nights.’

‘Keep to the point! Answer what I’m asking you. Did you see Motilal coming down the stairs?’

‘No sir. I saw him as he was going out through the main entrance.’

‘You didn’t see