In all the fifteen years that Byomkesh had known Rameswarbabu, I doubt whether we’d met the gentleman as many times. During the last five years or so, we had not seen him at all. But twice a year, the gentleman took it upon himself to send reminders that he had not forgotten us. On the annual occasions of the Bengali New Year and then Dussehra, the gentleman sent Byomkesh a missive by post.

Rameswarbabu was a wealthy man. He owned no less than eight houses in the city and his cash reserves were just as abundant. The lion’s share of the rent collected from those houses enhanced his accumulated wealth. His immediate family comprised his second wife, Kumudini, and his offspring from his first marriage: son Kusheswar and daughter Nalini. But most of all, he had an unlimited fund of humour.

Rameswarbabu was a witty man. He loved a good laugh and enjoyed making others laugh too. In my experience of life and people, I had discovered a natural law: Those who were humorous by nature, seldom succeeded in acquiring wealth. In fact, Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, only smiled upon the dour owl, her chosen mount. Rameswarbabu had turned this theory of mine on its head. At least, I was now aware that there were exceptions to the rule.

Rameswarbabu’s other great virtue was that once he got to know someone really well, he never let that person slip out of his mind. He had met Byomkesh in connection with a trifling matter—a minor theft that had taken place in his home. The incident had ended on a comic note, but he had fondly remembered Byomkesh ever since. On a few occasions, we had even been invited to his home for meals. He was a great deal older than us and, lately, his health had begun to deteriorate. But it was clear from his biannual missives that his sense of humour had remained intact.

I shall give an account today of Rameswarbabu’s final practical joke. The incident took place some years ago. At the time, no law was in force, granting a daughter equal inheritance rights to her father’s property.

It happened to be the day the Bengali New Year is celebrated. Rameswarbabu’s letter had arrived in the post that afternoon. The envelope in which it had been dispatched was a thick one, made of parchment. A neat hand had written the name and the address on it. A smile hovered on Byomkesh’s lips even as he picked it up. I had noticed that the very thought of Rameswarbabu brought a smile to people’s lips. Byomkesh’s expression was one of affection as he contemplated the envelope. ‘Ajit,’ he asked, ‘can you guess Rameswarbabu’s age?’

‘Ninety?’ I ventured.

‘Perhaps not quite as much,’ Byomkesh reflected, ‘but it must be some years since he celebrated his eightieth birthday. Yet, he’s still all there. Even his handwriting remains quite firm and legible.’

He tore open the envelope carefully and pulled out the