I gave a violent start as I opened the newspaper. Indranarayan Acharya had been killed in his own house, the day before yesterday. How strange! He had come to visit us only ten days ago. Feluda had already read the news. He shook his head with deep regret. ‘I couldn’t save him even after he came to me for help. But at that stage there was nothing for me to work on. How could I have given him any help?’ A small thing was bothering me. ‘First he was attacked in an alley,’ I said, ‘and then someone broke into his house to kill him. I must say the killer has enormous daring.’ ‘You can’t say that without looking at the victim’s house and seeing for yourself which room he stayed in. Besides, if someone was desperate to kill him, he wouldn’t hesitate to steal into his house, would he?’ ‘I guess not. But they didn’t ask you to make an investigation, did they?’ ‘No, they obviously decided to go to the police. But I happen to know the local inspector, Monilal Poddar. He might be able to give us some information.’ I had met Monilal Poddar before. Plump and heavily moustached, he was a cheerful man who often teased Feluda, but at the same time, respected him a great deal. As it happened, we didn’t have to wait for the police to tell us anything. Indranarayan’s father, Keertinarayan, himself sent word to Feluda. Three days after the murder took place, our door bell rang at nine in the morning. The visitor turned out to be a man in his early forties, his appearance smart and polished. I found him wiping his face when I opened the door. Although it was October, it was still pretty warm. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me for barging in like this,’ he said, ‘but I simply couldn’t get through on the telephone. I have been sent here by the old Mr Acharya—Keertinarayan. You may have heard of the murder in his house. He’d like your assistance in the matter.’ ‘I see. And you are—?’ ‘Oh, sorry. I should have introduced myself first. My name is Pradyumna Mallik. I am currently writing the biography of Kandarpanarayan Acharya, the one who had gone to England. I used to work for a newspaper, but I gave that up and became a full-fledged writer. At this moment, I am working as Keertinarayan’s secretary and collecting material for my book. Keertinarayan, as you may know, used to be a barrister. He retired four years ago. His health isn’t very good.’ ‘Why does he want my help? Haven’t they told the police?’ ‘Yes, his sons informed the police. But the old man himself has different views. He’s very fond of crime fiction. He feels this is a job for a private investigator. He’ll pay your fee, naturally.’ ‘Have you learnt anything further about the murder?’

‘No, not really. Someone stood behind Indranarayan and struck him on the head with a blunt instrument. He was seated at his desk at the time. According to the police surgeon, he was killed between twelve and half past twelve at night. His room was on the ground floor. He had a bedroom and a study. He used to work until quite late every night. You’re aware of his connection with the jatra, aren’t you?’ ‘Yes. In fact, Indranarayan had met me before he died, and told me quite a few things about himself and his family.’ ‘Well then, that makes things easier. Indranarayan had had one visitor that night. It was the manager of Binapani Opera. I think his name is Ashwini Bhaur. He came at ten o’clock, and the bearer, Santosh, said he heard him having an argument with Indranarayan. But he left at eleven. The police have already spoken to him. No one knows if he came back later. There is a door at the back that is often left unlocked until about one o’clock. The servants go out of the house after dinner to meet their friends, and normally don’t return until well after midnight. So if Mr Bhaur returned an hour later and slipped in through the back door, no one could have seen him. But anyway, you will obviously make your own enquiries, provided you agree to take on the job. If you do, you can visit Keertinarayan at eleven today. He’ll be free at that time.’ I knew Feluda would agree, for he had developed a curiosity about the Acharyas and had enjoyed his meeting with Indranarayan. It was agreed that we would reach Bosepukur by eleven. Mr Mallik wiped his face once more and left. ‘What’s that piece of paper doing here?’ Feluda asked a few moments after he had gone. I noticed a folded piece of paper lying in one corner of the settee which had been occupied by Mr Mallik. I picked it up and passed it to Feluda, who unfolded it and spread it out. It said: HAPPY BIRTHDAY HUKUM CHAND The words had been written with a ballpoint pen. Feluda frowned for a few seconds, staring at these words. Then he said, ‘Hukum Chand . . . the name sounds familiar. Perhaps the message is going to be written on a birthday cake. Hukum Chand may be a friend of Keertinarayan. Or perhaps Mr Mallik had been told to send a telegram with that message.’ Feluda folded the paper again and put it in his pocket. ‘What we must do now is inform the third Musketeer. We have to use his car and, in any case, he’s going to be most displeased if we leave him out.’ Lalmohan Babu turned up in his green Ambassador within an hour of being told, having waited only to have a quick shower and dress smartly. ‘It seems we’ll spend these Puja holidays solely trying to solve this mystery,’ he said when Feluda finished filling him in. ‘It’s good in a way. I always find it hard