Beni-Sanghar

One

It was morning. Byomkesh sat in his Keyatala house with a cup of tea and the newspaper. It was a winter morning, around eight o’clock. I, Ajit, had already hurriedly finished my tea and gone out—there was a meeting to be had with a famous author. The gentleman had promised to give me a copy of his new book, but celebrated writers have many suitors; it was necessary to secure the book in advance.

After finishing the advertisements in the newspaper, Byomkesh lifted his teacup. The remaining tea had grown cold; with a single gulp he emptied the cup and picked up the paper again. Now it was time to read the news.

These days, reading the newspaper makes it clear that the world is not in its right mind. Earthquakes, tidal waves, floods, droughts—these are ever-present, but beyond that, people themselves seem to have gone mad. War, revolution, internal strife, strikes, lockouts, bombs, tear gas, lathi charges. Perhaps it is because the population has grown so vast that no one finds peace anymore. Where there is such crowding and congestion, how can peace be found?

He did not need to turn the page. On the very first page was the account of a dreadful murder. The killing had occurred the night before last, was discovered yesterday morning, and today it was in the paper. It had happened in South Calcutta, not far from Byomkesh’s own home; a short walk south along the main road brought one to the immense three-storied house, with the name “Benimadhab” inscribed in large letters across its forehead. Byomkesh had passed by the house many times, but had never made the acquaintance of its inhabitants. From the newspaper he learned that the owner, the elderly Benimadhab Chakraborty, and his bodyguard had both been murdered in a brutal fashion.

Byomkesh read the account of the murder with keen attention, then absentmindedly lit a cigarette. Such a ghastly crime had taken place in the neighborhood the night before last, and yet he had heard nothing of it. Rakhal was the local inspector; surely he had taken charge of the investigation, but had not informed Byomkesh. Perhaps the matter was straightforward, with no mystery or complexity, and so Rakhal had not come. These days, even a truly intricate mystery had become a rare thing—

The telephone rang. Byomkesh reached out and held the receiver to his ear. From the other end came a voice: “Byomkesh-da? It’s Rakhal. Have you read today’s paper?”

Byomkesh replied, “I have. Beni-Sanghar?”

“What did you say—Beni-Sanghar? Oh yes, yes, Beni-Sanghar indeed, along with Meghraj-badh. I’m speaking from the scene itself.”

“What’s the matter?”

“The matter seems a bit tangled. I’ve been investigating since yesterday morning. Still no—”

No trace could be found. Are you very busy?' 'No.' 'Then could you come over here once? It’s not far from your house, just five minutes away. The house is called Benimadhab.' 'I know it.' 'When will you come?' 'Immediately.'

Two

Benimadhab Chakraborty had