M y first meeting with Byomkesh Bakshi took place in the spring of 1925.

I was fresh out of the university. There was no pressing need to try and earn my keep. The money that my father had left in the bank generated an interest decent enough to cover the expenses of a single person living in a boarding-house in Calcutta. I had decided to remain a bachelor all my life and to spend my time practising the literary arts. The first flush of youthful enthusiasm had led me to believe that a serious dedication to the literary muse would enable me to change the face of literature in Bengal. At this point in life it is not uncommon for Bengalis to dream of greatness—and it usually doesn’t take very long for these dreams to shatter.

However, let me continue with the story about my first encounter with Byomkesh.

Even those who are deeply familiar with Calcutta are perhaps unaware that there is an area in the very heart of the city which is flanked on one side by dwellings of badly- off non-Bengalis, on another by a degenerate slum, and on the third by hutments of the pale-skinned Chinese. In the centre of this mélange is a delta which by daylight does not seem unusual in any way. But after sundown, the locality is completely transformed. At the stroke of eight all businesses down their shutters and the entire place becomes shrouded in a deathly silence; just a few paan or cigarette stands remain open. Only shadowy figures flit across these streets after that hour. If a stranger happens to stray into the area at night, he quickens his pace and vacates the locality as soon as he can.

It would be pointless to discuss in detail how I happened to land up in a boarding-house in a neighbourhood such as this. Suffice it to say that in the light of day the surroundings had not aroused any suspicions in me and since I was getting a large, airy room on the first floor of the mess for a very reasonable price, I moved in without further ado. It was only later that I came to know that every month two or three mutilated corpses were discovered on the streets here, and a police raid was a common occurrence at least once a week. But by then I had come to feel a certain attachment to my dwelling and the thought of shifting bag and baggage did not appeal to me. I usually stayed in after dark, concentrating on my literary activities; the fear of personal injury was therefore practically non-existent.

On the first floor of the house there were five rooms in all, each occupied by a single gentleman. They were all middle-aged and employed in regular jobs. Every weekend they went home and returned to their respective jobs on Monday. All of them had been living in this mess for quite a while. Recently one of them