D ebkumarbabu’s trial had come to an end at the High Court. It was early February. The severity of winter was subsiding gradually. At times a light breeze brought the reminder that spring was not far away, but the warm rays of the morning sun still seemed inviting enough.

That morning, I was sitting by the window and soaking up the sun while turning the pages of the newspaper. Byomkesh had left on some errand soon after breakfast. He had said he would be back by ten o’clock.

The newspaper contained a report of the final phase of Debkumarbabu’s trial. I had no need to read about it because Byomkesh and I had been present in court through the entire proceedings. So I was turning the pages lazily and thinking about Debkumarbabu and his impossible obduracy. If he had been a little flexible, perhaps his conviction for murder could have been averted, since high politics did not always go by the penal code. But Debkumarbabu had decided not to reveal the formula of his invention, and there was no way to make him change his mind. An extensive investigation of the matchsticks, too, had failed to reveal the exact composition of the poisonous substance. So, the legal juggernaut had run its full course and brought the tragic matter to its conclusion.

I was still reflecting on the newspaper report when the telephone rang. I went and picked up the receiver. It was Inspector Birenbabu from the police station. His voice had an agitated edge to it. ‘Is Byomkeshbabu at home?’ he asked.

‘He has just stepped out. Is it anything urgent?’

‘Yes—when will he return?’

‘At about ten o’clock.’

‘All right then, I shall be there around ten. I have some bad news.’

Before I could ask him what the bad news was, he had hung up. I went back to my seat. My watch said it was nine o’clock. Although I felt restless, I picked up the newspaper and tried to go through it again, waiting for the clock to strike ten.

But I did not have to wait that long. Byomkesh returned within the next half hour. When I told him about Birenbabu’s call, he looked surprised and said, ‘Really? I wonder what it is now.’

I shook my head in silence. Byomkesh summoned Putiram and directed him to make some tea. This was a prerequisite to greeting Birenbabu. He had such a fondness for the beverage that it brooked no consideration for time and place.

After ordering the tea, Byomkesh stretched out on a chair and took out his packet of cigarettes; he held one between his lips and, taking a matchbox out of his pocket, remarked, ‘If Birenbabu says it is bad news, it must be something serious. Maybe—’

He stopped short. I looked up and found him gazing in astonishment at the matchbox he was holding. Putting down the unlit cigarette, he spoke slowly, ‘This is very strange! How did this matchbox come to be