A priceless necklace made of precious gemstones had been stolen from the home of the famous jeweller Rashomoy Sirkar. I noticed the headline on page three while going through the morning newspaper. The phone rang at around eight a.m.

A tremulous, unfamiliar voice asked, ‘Hello, is that Byomkeshbabu?’

‘No,’ I replied, ‘this is Ajit. May I know who’s on the line?’

‘My name is Rashomoy Sirkar,’ came the reply. ‘Could you please tell Byomkeshbabu that I need to speak to him?’

The name gave it all away—Byomkesh would obviously be summoned to flush out the thief and apprehend him.

‘He’s in the bathroom,’ I explained. ‘He’ll take a while. I read in the newspaper that a necklace had been stolen from your store.’

‘Not from the store. From my home. Are you Ajit Bandyopadhyay, Byomkeshbabu’s friend?’

‘That’s right,’ I replied. ‘You may, if you like, tell me whatever it is that you wish to discuss with Byomkesh.’

There was a slight pause. Then Rashomoy Sirkar began, ‘The necklace that was stolen is worth fifty-seven thousand rupees. We suspect one of the domestic staff, but there is no evidence. We have naturally informed the police, but Byomkeshbabu’s the person I want. He is the only one who can recover the necklace.’

‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you come over? By the time you arrive, Byomkesh should be out of the bathroom.’

Rashomoy sounded a little glum as he said, ‘I am arthritic and not very mobile. I would be deeply grateful if the two of you consented to come over to my place instead.’

Those in need always came in search of Byomkesh, I mused; he never sought anyone out. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll let Byomkesh know.’

Rashomoy’s voice sounded still more frantic, ‘Oh, no, please! You won’t just let him know! You must come over! I’m sending my car down to fetch the two of you. You won’t be inconvenienced in any way, I promise.’

‘Well, all right.’

‘Thank you, thank you! I’ll send the car right away.’

Within a few minutes, a Cadillac glided to a halt before the front door. When Byomkesh emerged from the bathroom, I told him what had transpired and drew his attention to the car, visible from the window. After hearing me out, he did not demur. We got into the Cadillac and set off.

Rashomoy Sirkar owned more than four jewellery stores in different parts of the city. But he lived in Bowbazaar. In a short while, we had arrived at his place and the car rolled to a stop before his front door.

The house was an old-fashioned one, three-storeyed and flush with the pavement. The door to the stairway leading upstairs stood in the centre, flanked by shops on either side. The owner’s living quarters spread over the entire first and second floors.

As the car pulled over, the door to the stairway was unbolted from inside by a handsome young man who came out to greet us. He was