Feluda, Jatayu and I were sitting in Indian Airlines flight number 263, on our way to Delhi. The plane left at 7.30 a.m. Feluda had explained to Jatayu, while we were waiting in the departure lounge, about our visit to Pretoria Street and the ensuing events. Jatayu listened, round-eyed, occasionally breaking into exclamations like ‘thrilling!’ and ‘highly suspicious!’ Then he jotted down in his notebook the little matter of the thief and the mustard oil. ‘Have you flown before?’ I asked him. ‘If,’ he replied sagely, ‘a man’s imagination is lively enough, he can savour an experience without actually doing anything. No, I’ve never travelled by air. But if you asked me whether I’m feeling nervous, my answer would be “not a bit” because in my imagination, I have travelled not just in an aeroplane but also in a rocket. Yes, I have been to the moon!’ Despite these brave words, when the plane began to speed across the runway just before take-off, I saw Lalmohan Babu clutching the armrests of his seat so tightly that his knuckles turned white. When the plane actually shot up in the air, his colour turned a rather unhealthy shade of yellow and his face broke into a terrible grimace. ‘What happened to you?’ I asked him afterwards. ‘But that was natural!’ he said. ‘When a rocket leaves for outer space, even the faces of astronauts get distorted. The thing is, you see, as you’re leaving the ground, the laws of gravity pull you back. In that conflict, the facial muscles contract, and hence the distortion of the whole face.’ I wanted to ask if that was indeed the case, why should Lalmohan Babu be the only person to be singled out by the laws of gravity, why didn’t everyone else get similarly affected; but seeing that he had recovered his composure and was, in fact, looking quite cheerful, I said nothing more. Breakfast arrived soon, with the cutlery wrapped in a cellophane sheet. Lalmohan Babu attacked his omelette with the coffee spoon, used the knife like a spoon to scoop out the marmalade from its little pot, putting it straight into his mouth without bothering to spread it on a piece of bread; then he tried to peel the orange with his fork, but gave up soon and used his fingers instead. Finally, he leant forward and said to Feluda, ‘I saw you chewing betel-nut a while ago. Do you have any left?’ Feluda took out the Kodak container from the blue attaché case and passed it to Lalmohan Babu. I couldn’t help glancing again at Mr Dhameeja’s case. Did it know that we were going to travel twelve hundred miles to a snow-laden place situated at a height of seven thousand feet, simply to return it to its owner and pick up an identical one? The thought suddenly made me shiver. Feluda had said virtually nothing after we took off. He had taken out his famous blue notebook (volume seven) and was scribbling in it, occasionally looking up to stare out of the window at the

fluffy white clouds, biting the end of his pen. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. I, for my part, had given up trying to think at all. It was all too complex. We soon landed in Delhi and came out of the airport. There was a noticeable nip in the air. ‘This probably means there has been a fresh snowfall in Simla,’ Feluda observed. He was still clutching the blue case. Not for a second had he allowed himself to be separated from it. ‘I think I can get a room at the Agra Hotel,’ said Lalmohan Babu. ‘I will join you at the Janpath by noon. Then we can have lunch together and have a little roam around. The train to Simla doesn’t leave until eight this evening, does it?’ The Janpath was a fairly large hotel. We were given room 532 on the fifth floor. Feluda put our luggage on the luggage-rack and threw himself on the bed. I decided to take this opportunity to ask him something that I had been feeling curious about. ‘Feluda,’ I said, ‘in this whole business of blue cases and jumping hooligans, what strikes you as most suspicious?’ ‘The newspapers.’ ‘Er . . . would you care to elaborate?’ I asked hesitantly. ‘I cannot figure out why Mr Dhameeja folded the two newspapers so neatly and put them in his case with such care. A newspaper, once read, especially on a train, is useless. Most people would leave it behind without a second thought. Then why . . . ?’ This was Feluda’s technique. He would begin to worry about a seemingly completely irrelevant point that would escape everyone else. Certainly I couldn’t make head or tail of it. In the remaining hours that we spent in Delhi, two things happened. The first was nothing remarkable, but the other was horrifying. Lalmohan Babu turned up at about half past twelve. We decided to go to the Jantar Mantar, which was not far from our hotel. Jatayu and I were both keen to see this observatory built two hundred and fifty years ago by Sawai Jai Singh. Feluda said he’d much rather stay in the hotel, both to keep an eye on Dhameeja’s attaché case and to think more about the mystery. The first incident took place within ten minutes of our arrival at the Jantar Mantar. We were strolling along peacefully, when suddenly Lalmohan Babu clutched at my sleeve and whispered, ‘I think . . . I think a rather suspicious character is trying to follow us!’ I looked at the man he indicated. It was an old man, a Nepali cap on his head, cotton wool plugged in his ears, his eyes hidden behind a pair of dark glasses. It did appear as though he was interested in our movements. How very strange! ‘I know that man!’ said Jatayu. ‘What!’ ‘He sat next to