We had gone to Bosepukur on a Thursday, and were supposed to go back there on Saturday. We were therefore free on Friday. Lalmohan Babu turned up in the morning, although he normally came only on Sunday. The beginning of a new case was clearly causing him great excitement. He flopped down on a chair and said, ‘There’s lots to do, isn’t there? Surely we must visit some of these jatra companies?’ ‘Certainly. Since you’re here already, let’s take your car and go to Bharat Opera.’ ‘And then I suppose we need to find the manager of Binapani, Ishan—’ ‘No, not Ishan. Ashwini. Ashwini Bhaur. Yes, we have to speak to him as well. Topshe, go and find their address.’ I looked it up in the telephone directory and discovered it was in Suresh Mallik Street. ‘I know where it is,’ Lalmohan Babu informed us. ‘I used to go there regularly at one time. There used to be a gym.’ ‘You used to go to a gym?’ Even Feluda couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘Yes, believe me. I did push-ups and used barbells, and a chest expander. When I eventually stopped going there, my chest measured forty-two inches. Not bad for a man of my height, eh?’ ‘So what happened to that chest and those muscles?’ ‘They . . . disappeared. What would a writer do with muscles, anyway? Whatever muscles I have left are in my brain. But I still walk a lot, miles daily. That’s why I can still keep up with you.’ We left after a cup of tea. Lalmohan Babu’s driver got very excited on being told where we were going. He had seen many shows staged by Bharat Opera and knew about the murder. ‘It was Indra Acharya alone who made Bharat Opera what it is today. If you can catch his killer, sir, you will do us all a great service,’ he said to Feluda. The traffic being heavy today, it took us forty-five minutes to reach Bharat Opera in Muhammad Shafi Lane. A dark, middle-aged man greeted us as we entered. ‘Who would you like to see?’ he asked lazily. Feluda produced his card. The man’s demeanour underwent a swift change. His expressionless eyes began glinting with interest. ‘Are you looking for Sarat Babu, our proprietor?’ ‘Yes, that’s right.’ ‘Just a minute, please.’ The man disappeared behind a door. We found ourselves a bench and a chair and sat down. Lalmohan Babu glanced around and said, ‘You wouldn’t say this company was doing so well just by looking at this room, would you?’

The same man came back in a couple of minutes and said, ‘Please come with me. Sarat Babu’s office is upstairs.’ We went up a narrow staircase. I caught strains of a harmonium. Were people rehearsing somewhere in the building? Even if they had lost a valuable member of their team, the show had to go on. The office of the proprietor, Sarat Bhattacharya, was very different from the room downstairs. It was a large and spacious room, with a big table in one corner surrounded by several sturdy chairs, photographs of artists gracing the walls and a huge Godrej almirah placed opposite the table. A fan whirred noisily overhead. The man seated behind the table was obviously the proprietor. He was bald, except for a few grey strands around his ears, his eyebrows thick and bushy, his age possibly between fifty and sixty-five. ‘You are Pradosh Mitter?’ he asked, looking at Feluda. ‘Yes, and this is my friend, Lalmohan Ganguli, who writes crime thrillers,’ Feluda replied. ‘Oh, you are the famous Jatayu? Very pleased to meet you, sir. Everyone in my family is a devoted fan.’ Lalmohan Babu coughed politely, then we sat down. Feluda began speaking. ‘Indranarayan’s father asked me to investigate his son’s murder. That’s why I’m here.’ Sarat Babu shook his head. ‘What can I tell you, except that his death has almost destroyed my company? I could perhaps get someone to write good plays, but no one could ever write the kind of songs Indra Babu wrote. They were superb, utterly beautiful. People used to flock to our shows just to hear his songs.’ ‘We’ve heard he was being tempted to leave your group and join another.’ ‘That may well be. But it had no effect on Indra Babu. He was very close to me, he’d never have left my group. He was only twenty-five when he first came to me. I gave him his first break. He often used to tell me how grateful he was because of that. But now . . . I’ve been crippled, my company paralysed.’ Sarat Babu stopped to wipe his eyes. Then he went on, ‘Someone attacked him a few days before the murder. You knew that, didn’t you? Well, I couldn’t say for sure whether that is related to the actual murder. After all, there’s no dearth of petty thieves in this area. But anything could have happened if those boys hadn’t turned up. There really isn’t anything more I could tell you. If you must make enquiries, go to Binapani. Whoever did this, killed not just Indra Babu but Bharat Opera as well.’ We rose and said goodbye. It was time now to make our way to Binapani. It didn’t prove too difficult to find their office. Rehearsals were in full swing. We could hear many voices, raised high and trembling with emotion—a prerequisite of all jatras. It didn’t take us long to find the manager. One look at Feluda’s card made him lose his temper. ‘Is this to do with the murder in Bosepukur?’ he bellowed. ‘Yes,’ Feluda replied, ‘I’ve been asked to investigate. I’d like to ask you a few questions since you had met the victim just before he was killed.’ ‘The police have already been here and asked a thousand questions. Why must you do the same? Anyway, I know nothing about the murder. I had gone simply to make him an offer,