Our hotel was large and comfortable, but not all that expensive. ‘Mr Majumdar’s travel agent is a sensible fellow, I must say,’ Lalmohan Babu commented. He seemed very pleased with everything he saw, from the underground stations to the red double-decker buses. ‘See how handsome these buses are?’ he said admiringly, looking out of the window. ‘We have double-decker buses too. Why do you think ours look as though they’ve been chewed and then spat out?’ After lunch, Feluda said, ‘If you’re not feeling tired, go and have a walk down Oxford Street. You’ll see London at its busiest.’ ‘What about you? What are you going to do?’ ‘I am going to call my friend, Bikash Datta. Didn’t I tell you I had a friend here? Let’s see if he can give us any information.’ We were not particularly tired, so we decided to go out. Feluda managed to get through to his friend almost immediately. When he rang off, he was smiling. ‘Bikash was amazed to hear my enquiries had brought me to London. But he told me something useful.’ ‘What?’ ‘There’s an old doctor here—an Indian, who came to London as a medical student soon after the Second World War, then stayed on to work as a GP. A man called Nishanath Sen. He is apparently, a very kind and helpful man. He might have known Mr Majumdar’s father. Bikash gave me the address of his clinic. I think I’ll try meeting him.’ Feluda got to his feet. ‘If we must take shots in the dark, we may as well start with Dr Sen.’ We left the hotel together. Feluda went in the direction of the tube station, having told us how to find Oxford Street. Lalmohan Babu and I pulled out woollen scarves and wound them round our necks as we began walking. October in London was decidedly cool. There were plenty of Indians on the street, which was probably why Lalmohan Babu said, ‘I feel quite at home, dear Tapesh. Mind you, the roads are so good here that that is enough to remind me I am not at home!’ A little later, staring wide-eyed at the milling crowds on Oxford Street, he exclaimed, ‘A sea of humanity, Tapesh! A veritable ocean!’ What was amazing was the speed with which everyone was walking. Why was every single person in such a hurry? We had to increase our own pace, or we’d have been trampled in the rush. The street was lined with huge departmental stores, with the most tempting objects in their show windows. I could now see the famous names I had only heard of: Marks & Spencer, Boots, Debenhams, D. H. Evans, John Lewis. Selfridges, I knew, was at one end of Oxford Street. But I had no idea it was so big.

‘Let’s go in,’ I said and pushed Lalmohan Babu through a revolving door. Neither of us had ever seen anything like it. It was crammed with people. We could hardly take a step forward without being pushed and jostled. I held Lalmohan Babu’s hand tightly, in case he got lost. Every conceivable consumer product appeared to be available in this shop. ‘I never knew,’ Lalmohan Babu remarked as we finally emerged in the stationery department, which was relatively less crowded, ‘that it was possible to have a human traffic jam. But, dear boy, how can we go back without buying anything here?’ ‘What would you like to buy?’ ‘See the number of pens and writing material they’ve got? If I could buy a pen, that would be enough. I mean, I could write my next novel with a pen I bought in London, couldn’t I?’ ‘Of course. Why don’t you choose one?’ It took him five minutes to find one he liked. ‘Three pounds thirty pence. What’s that in rupees?’ he asked. ‘Nearly seventy-five,’ I replied. ‘Good. A pen like this in Calcutta would cost not less than two hundred.’ ‘Really? Well then, take it. The payment counter’s over there.’ ‘What . . . what do I have to tell them?’ ‘Nothing. Just give this pen to that lady over there, and she’ll tell you what you have to pay. Then you give her a five pound note because I know you haven’t got any coins, and she’ll give you the change, and put your pen in a Selfridges paper bag. That’s all.’ ‘How do you know all this? This is only your first day!’ ‘I have been looking at other people. So have you, but you haven’ really observed anything.’ Two minutes later, he returned smiling, clutching his pen wrapped in a bag. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I asked. ‘Good idea, but where could we go?’ ‘There’s a cafe here, upstairs.’ ‘Very well, let’s go.’ We took the escalator to the top floor and found the cafe and, luckily, an empty table. It didn’t take us long to finish our tea. By the time we crossed the ‘ocean of humanity’ in Oxford Street again and reached our hotel, it was half past four. Feluda was back already. ‘Did you get an idea of what England is like?’ he asked with a smile. ‘Oh Felu Babu, I haven’t got words to describe my feelings.’ ‘Why? The books you write seem to suggest you have an endless stock of adjectives. Why are words failing you now?’ ‘There’s only one word I can think of: super-sensational. I am caught in a dilemma, Felu Babu.’ ‘A dilemma? How come?’ ‘Should I simply see the sights of London, or should I see how you’re conducting your enquiries?’ ‘My enquiries have only just begun. There’s nothing to see. I suggest you see as much of London as you can. If I come across anything interesting, I shall certainly let you know.’ ‘Did you get to meet that doctor?’

‘Yes, but he was so busy with his patients there was no time to talk. He told me to go to his house tomorrow morning.