It wasn’t so very long ago that Barada-babu, the ghost-seeker, had run into Byomkesh, the truth-seeker. Byomkesh was by nature opposed to the outdoors; he preferred to spin his spider’s web in a corner of the room. But on that occasion he had surprised everyone with a journey of three hundred miles.

A childhood friend of Byomkesh’s was employed as Deputy Superintendent of Police in the state of Bihar. He had been transferred to Munger some time earlier and had begun to hurl letters at Byomkesh at regular intervals. There must have been a hidden motive behind his cordial invitations; for the mind refuses to imagine that a DSP would want to revive an ancient, half-forgotten friendship without any reason.

It was the middle of September; the clouds had lost their colour, perhaps due to their excessive extravagance. On a day such as this Byomkesh suggested with a kind of desperation on receiving a letter from his policeman friend, ‘Let us visit Munger.’

I was ready. There’s something in the autumn air before Durga Puja that relentlessly pushes the resident Bengali away from home and the non-resident Bengali, towards it. ‘Let’s,’ I said happily.

Arriving at Munger at the appointed hour, we discovered the DSP waiting for us. His name was Shashanka-babu. Probably the same age as ourselves, he had not yet crossed his thirties; yet his expression and behaviour had already acquired an air of middle-aged gravity. It seemed he had aged under the weight of additional responsibilities thrust on upon him while still relatively young. He took us to his official quarters inside the fort and settled us in.

The part of Munger referred to as ‘fort’ retains none of its fortitude; but once upon a time it had in fact been Mir Kasim’s impregnable fort. It was a circular area with a perimeter of almost a quarter of a mile, surrounded by ramparts and a moat, with the Ganga flowing on the left. There were only three exit gates. At present the fort held—besides the living quarters for high-ranking state and judicial officials, the jail, and an extensive playground—the residences of a handful of ordinary citizens too. The town, the market and actual human habitation were outside; the fort was seemingly a sovereign, upper-class enclave for royals and noblemen.

I became acquainted with Shashanka-babu at his residence over breakfast and a cup of tea. He welcomed us profusely; but I observed that the man was exceedingly cunning, considerably adept at conversation. Unless you paid close attention, you would not realize how he had unobtrusively got to the point during seemingly aimless chatter about memories of old friendship and a list of sights worth seeing in Munger. At least, there was no doubt that he was a man of action, bringing up the real issue with such verbal finesse that there could be no scope for resentment or dissatisfaction.

As a matter of fact I had not even grasped that he had raised the real issue within half