We were now going back the same way we had come. It was past one-thirty, but neither of us was thinking of lunch. Balaram Ghosh did suggest stopping for a cup of tea when we reached Jessore Road, but Feluda paid no attention. Perhaps our driver smelt an adventure in all this, so he, too, did not raise the subject of food again. Our car was now going at 75 kmph. I was aware of only one thought that kept going over and over in my mind: how close we had got to retrieving the yakshi’s head! If we hadn’t had a power cut this morning, we would have heard the news on the radio, and then we would have reached Sidikpur much sooner and most certainly we would have got hold of Panu. If that had happened, by now we would have been making our way to the office of the Archaeological Survey of India. Who knows, Feluda might have been given a Padma Shree for recovering the country’s lost heritage! The sun had already dried the road. I was beginning to wonder why we couldn’t go a little faster, when my eyes caught sight of something by the roadside that caused a sharp rise in my pulse rate. A blue Ambassador was standing outside a small garage. ‘Should I stop here, sir?’ Balaram Ghosh asked, reducing his speed. He had obviously paid great attention to what those boys had told us. ‘Yes, at that tea stall over there,’ Feluda replied. Mr Ghosh swept up to the stall and pulled up by its side with a screech. We got out and Feluda ordered three cups of tea. I noticed that tea was being served in small glasses, there were no cups. ‘What else have you got?’ Feluda asked. ‘Biscuits. Would you like some? They’re fresh, sir, and very tasty.’ Two glass jars stood on a counter, filled with large, round biscuits. Feluda asked for half-a-dozen of those. My eyes kept darting back to the blue car. A mechanic was in the process of replacing a punctured tyre. A man—medium height, age around forty, thick bushy eyebrows, hair brushed back—was pacing up and down, inhaling every now and then from a half-finished cigarette. Our tea was almost ready. Feluda took out a Charminar, then pretended he had lost his lighter. He patted his pocket twice, then shrugged and moved over to join the other man. The driver and I stayed near our taxi, but we could hear what was said. ‘Excuse me.’ Feluda began, ‘do you . . . ?’ The man took out a lighter and lit Feluda’s cigarette for him. ‘Thanks,’ Feluda inhaled. ‘A terrible business, wasn’t it?’ The man glanced at Feluda, then looked away without replying. Feluda tried once more. ‘Weren’t you at the site where that plane crashed? I thought I saw your car there!’ This time, the man spoke. ‘What plane crash?’ ‘Good heavens, haven’t you heard? A plane bound for Kathmandu crashed near