The city where Byomkesh and I had come to spend a week in exile could well be called a coal-town. Encircling the city, at a distance of three or four miles, lay four or so coal mines. The city itself sat at the center, like a spider in its web, as coal from all directions was gathered at the railway station and dispatched by freight trains to distant places. It was a bustling, prosperous city; wealthy businessmen had set up their haunts here, several large banks operated, and lawyers, doctors, engineers, brokers, and moneylenders abounded. The streets bustled with motors, taxis, buses, and trucks. There was a constant exchange of raw materials and ready cash. The city was ruled—by coal. Everywhere, the song of coal, the clamor of coal. The city was by no means ancient, yet it seemed as if the invisible dust of coal had cast a premature shadow of age upon its every surface.

The man who had summoned us to this city was the owner of a coal mine called Phuljhari—his name, Manish Chakraborty. For several months, his mine had been plagued by various covert disturbances. Fires breaking out deep within the mine, valuable machinery being damaged and destroyed—such accidents had occurred; even among the laborers and coolies, needless discontent had begun to brew. There was no doubt that a group of people were trying to harm him. In such circumstances, as was only natural, Manish Babu called the police. He dismissed many new workers. But nothing came of it. At last, in secret, he sent for Byomkesh.

One evening in the month of Chaitra, we arrived at Manish Babu’s residence—a spacious, two-storied house surrounded by gardens, situated in the city’s most distinguished quarter. Manish Babu had just returned from the mine and greeted us cordially. He appeared to be around fifty, a fair-complexioned and handsome man, still in robust health. The firmness of his jaw suggested a somewhat stern temperament.

After we had sat conversing for a while in the drawing room, Manish Babu said, “Byomkesh Babu, you must stay here under assumed names. You will be Gagan Babu, and Ajit Babu will be Sujit Babu. If people hear your real names, they will immediately guess your purpose here. That would not be desirable.”

Byomkesh smiled and replied, “Very well, for as long as we are here, I shall be Gagan Babu. Ajit has no objection to becoming Sujit either.”

At the doorway, a young man stood shifting uneasily, perhaps waiting for an introduction to Byomkesh. Manish Babu called out, “Phani!”

The young man entered the room eagerly. Manish Babu turned to us and said, “My son, Phanish. —Phani, you know who they are, but make sure no one else outside the house finds out.”

Thus Spake Poet Kalidas 675

Phanish said, “No, sir.”

“Then take them to the guest room. See that they have no inconvenience. —You gentlemen, please wash your hands and faces, tea is being prepared.”

The guest room adjoined the drawing