It was now 9.30 p.m. Our train was rushing through the darkness in the direction of Kalka. We would have to change at Kalka to go on to Simla. There were only the three of us in our compartment. The fourth berth was empty. I couldn’t guess how the other two were feeling, but in my own mind there was a mixture of so many different emotions that it was impossible to tell which was the uppermost: excitement, pleasure, an eager anticipation or fear. Lalmohan Babu broke the silence by saying, somewhat hesitantly, ‘Tel! me, Mr Mitter, the dividing line between a brilliant detective and a criminal with real cunning is really quite thin, isn’t it?’ Feluda was so preoccupied that he did not reply. But I knew very well what had prompted the question. It was related to a certain incident that took place during the evening. I should describe it in some detail, for it revealed a rather unexpected streak in Feluda’s character. It had taken us barely half an hour to collect most of the things we needed to deceive Mr Dhameeja. The only major problem was the attaché case itself. Where could we find a blue Air-India case? We didn’t know anyone in Delhi we could ask. It might be possible to get a similar blue case in a shop—but that wouldn’t have Air India written on it. And that would, naturally, give the whole show away. In the end, however, in sheer desperation, we did buy a plain blue case and, clutching it in one hand, Feluda led us into the main office of Air-India. The first person our eyes fell on was an old man, a Parsee cap on his head, sitting right next to the ‘Enquiries’ counter. On his left, resting against his chair, was a brand new blue Air India attaché case, exactly the kind we were looking for. Feluda walked straight up to the counter and placed his own case beside the old man’s. ‘Is there an Air-India flight to Frankfurt from Delhi?’ he asked the man behind the counter. In a matter of seconds, he got the necessary information, said, ‘Thank you,’ picked up the old man’s case and pushed his own to the spot where it had been resting and coolly walked out. Lalmohan Babu and I followed, quite speechless. Then we returned to the hotel and Feluda began to work on the attaché case. By the time he finished, no one—not even Mr Dhameeja—could have said that it was not the one we had been given by Dinanath Lahiri. The same applied to its contents. Feluda had been staring at his notebook. Now he shut it, rose and began pacing. ‘It was just like this,’ he muttered. ‘Those four men were in a coach exactly like this . . .’ I have always found it difficult to tell what would attract Feluda’s attention. Right now, he was staring at the glasses that stood inside metal rings attached to the wall. Why should these be of any interest to him? ‘Can you sleep in a moving train, or can’t you?’ he asked Lalmohan Babu, rather abruptly. ‘Well, I . . .’ Lalmohan Babu replied, trying to suppress a giant yawn, ‘I quite like being rocked.’

‘Yes. I know the rocking generally helps one sleep. But not everyone, mind you. I have an uncle who cannot sleep a wink in a train,’ said Feluda and jumped up on the empty berth. Then he switched on the reading lamp, opened the book that was in Dhameeja’s attaché case, and turned a few pages. We had bought a second copy at a book stall in the New Delhi railway station. Laying the book aside, Feluda stretched on the upper berth and stared up at the ceiling. It was completely dark outside. Nothing could be seen except a few flickering lights in the distance. I was about to ask Lalmohan Babu if he had remembered to bring his weapon and, if so, when would he show it to us, when he spoke unexpectedly. ‘We forgot one thing,’ he said, ‘betel-nuts. We must check with the fellow from the dining car if they have any. If not, we shall have to buy some at the next station. There’s just one left in this little box.’ Lalmohan Babu took out the Kodak container, the only original object left from Dhameeja’s attaché case, and tilted it on his palm. The betel-nut did not slip out. ‘How annoying!’ he exclaimed. ‘I can see it, but it won’t come out!’ He began to shake the container vigorously, showering strong words on the obstinate piece of betel-nut, but it refused to budge. ‘Give it to me!’ said Feluda and leapt down from the upper berth, snatching the container from Lalmohan Babu’s hand. Lalmohan Babu could only stare at him, completely taken aback. Feluda slipped his little finger into the box and pushed at the small object, using a little force. It now came out like an obedient child. Feluda sniffed a couple of times and said, ‘Araldite. Someone used Araldite on this piece of betel-nut. I wonder why—? Topshe, shut the door.’ There were footsteps outside in the corridor. I did shut the door, but not before I had caught a glimpse of the man who went past our compartment. It was the same old man we had seen at the Jantar Mantar. He was still wearing the dark glasses and his ears were still plugged with cotton wool. ‘Sh-h-h-h,’ Feluda whistled. He was gazing steadily at the little betel-nut that lay on his palm. I went forward for a closer look. It was clear that it was not a betel-nut at all. Some other object had been painted brown to camouflage it. ‘I should have guessed,’ said Feluda softly. ‘I should have known a long time ago. Oh, what a fool I have been, Topshe!’ Feluda now lifted one of the glasses from its ring, poured a little