‘Sublime!’ said Lalmohan Babu. I had never heard him use this word earlier. But before I could say anything, he added, ‘Heavenly, unique, glorious, magnificent, indescribable—oh, just out of this world!’ The reason for this burst of excitement was simple. He had risen in the morning, and had seen Kanchenjunga from his window. It had just started to glow pink in the early morning sun. Unable to contain himself, Lalmohan Babu made me join him in his room. ‘One can’t really enjoy such a thing unless the joy is shared, you see,’ he explained. This remark was then followed by a stream of superlatives. Feluda had seen it, too, but not from our room. He had finished doing yoga and left the hotel long before I woke up. He returned after a walk from the Mall to the Observatory Hill, just in time for our first cup of tea. ‘Each time I see Kanchenjunga,’ he declared, ‘I seem to grow younger. Thank goodness the new buildings that have cropped up in most places have made no difference to the road to and from the Observatory Hill.’ ‘I feel just the same, Felu Babu. Life seems worth living, now that I’ve seen Kanchenjunga.’ ‘Good. I’m very glad to hear that, for it shows you have still retained a few finer feelings, in spite of all the nonsense you write.’ Lalmohan Babu let that pass. ‘What are we going to do today?’ he asked. We were in the dining hall, having breakfast. Feluda tore off a piece of omelette and put it in his mouth. ‘I’d like to visit Mr Majumdar today. His house is going to be very crowded from tomorrow. Today is probably the only day we can have a quiet and peaceful meeting in his house. I consider it my duty to cultivate a man like him.’ ‘Very well, just as you say.’ We left at half past eight. We had to go down the Mall, past Das Studio and Keventer’s, and walk for three-quarters of a mile to get to Mount Everest Hotel. The road to Mr Majumdar’s house began after that. As it happened, we had no difficulty in finding it. It was a sprawling old bungalow, made of wood, with a red tiled roof. A well-kept garden surrounded it. Behind it stood a pine forest and, beyond that, a steep hill. The mali working in the garden came forward on seeing us. ‘Is Mr Majumdar at home?’ Feluda asked. ‘Yes. Who shall I say—?’ ‘Just tell him the people he met yesterday are here to see him.’ The mali disappeared inside the house. While we waited outside, I kept looking at the house and admiring its surroundings. Kanchenjunga was clearly visible in the north, now a shimmering silver. Whoever had chosen this spot to build a house clearly had good sense as well as good taste. Mr Majumdar and the mali came out together.

‘Good morning! Do come in,’ Mr Majumdar invited. We went through a white wooden gate with ‘Nayanpur Villa’ written on it, and joined our host. He must have been very good-looking once, I thought. Even now, he certainly didn’t look as though he might be ailing. Another gentleman had come out with him. He was introduced as Rajat Bose, his secretary. A man of medium height and a clear complexion, Mr Bose was wearing a dark blue polo neck sweater over brown trousers. We were taken to the drawing room. There was glass case in one corner, crammed with silver trophies of various shapes and sizes. These had obviously been won by Mr Majumdar in sports competitions. A leopard skin was spread on the floor, and on the wall hung the heads of two deer and a bison. We sat on two sofas. ‘My son, Samiran, is coming this evening,’ Mr Majumdar told us. ‘I don’t think you’ll find any similarities between him and me. He is a businessman, very involved with the share market.’ ‘Is he coming on holiday, or is it strictly business?’ ‘He said he had taken a week off. But he’s very restless, just not the type to sit at home and relax, even for a few days. He’s almost thirty, but is showing no signs of getting married. God knows when he’ll settle down. But never mind about my son. Tell me about yourselves.’ ‘We came here to hear about you,’ Feluda said. ‘Then I hope you’ve got all day,’ Mr Majumdar laughed. ‘I have led a very colourful life. Until I was about forty, there was very little that I didn’t do—sports, both indoor and outdoor, shikar, just name it. But afterwards, I was put in charge of a bank, which meant handling enormous responsibilities. So I had to cut down on most other activities, and concentrate on my job.’ ‘But you still had your favourite hobby?’ ‘You mean collecting press cuttings? Oh yes. I never gave that up. Rajat can show you a sample.’ He nodded at Mr Bose, who got up and went into the next room. He returned with a fat scrapbook, and handed it to Feluda. Lalmohan Babu and I moved from where we were sitting to get a closer look. It was a remarkable object, undoubtedly. ‘I can see that you’ve got cuttings from a London newspaper as well,’ Feluda remarked. ‘Yes. A friend of mine is a doctor in London. He has my instructions to send me copies of any sensational news he gets to read.’ ‘Murder, robbery, accidents, fires, suicide . . . you’ve got them all, haven’t you?’ ‘Yes that’s right.’ ‘But what were you telling me about a criminal case that hasn’t yet been solved?’ ‘Yes, there is such a case. I can show you the relevant report. There is one more case like that, though you won’t see a cutting, for the press didn’t get to hear about it.’ ‘What happened?’ ‘No, please don’t ask me to explain. I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you anything more.