We left the hotel at around six o’clock. All of us believed that unless one explored a city on foot, one couldn’t get to know it at all. We had roamed similarly in Jodhpur, Varanasi, Delhi and Gangtok. Why shouldn’t we do so in Bombay? A little way away, to the right, was Kemp’s Corner. We found an impressive flyover there. It was like a bridge, supported by massive pillars. Traffic ran both on it, and under it. We crossed the road under the bridge and went down Gibbs Road. Feluda pointed at a road on our right and said it went to the Hanging Gardens. The hill where these gardens were built was called Malabar Hill. We had to walk another mile before we could reach the sea. We crossed the road, managing to avoid the rush hour traffic, and found ourselves standing by a stone wall. The top of the wall came up to my waist. Behind that wall roared the sea, its waves crashing against it. The road on our left ran to the east, then curved and went towards the south, ending where rows of skyscrapers stood hazily in the setting sun. The arc that we could see was called Marine Drive. ‘Never mind if there are smugglers here,’ Lalmohan babu proclaimed, ‘Look at that sea, and the hills . . . I must say Bombay is a champion city!’ We began walking by the stone wall towards Marine Drive. Cars were moving down the road to our left, looking like rows of ants. After a few minutes, Lalmohan babu made another remark. ‘I suppose the Metropolitan Development Authority isn’t quite so active here, is it? They don’t keep digging up streets all the time?’ he asked. ‘Why? Are you saying that because there are no potholes?’ ‘Yes. I noticed it as soon as we left the airport. There I was, travelling in a car, but there were no jerks, no bumps. Amazing!’ I had spotted a crowded area by the sea. It looked a bit like the area around Shaheed Minar in Calcutta, on a Sunday. As we got closer, Feluda told me it was called Chowpatty. Apparently, it was always crowded. There were rows of stalls. Perhaps they were selling snacks like bhelpuri, chaat and ice-cream. My guess turned out to be quite correct. It looked as if a huge mela was being held. Half the city of Bombay appeared to have turned up. Lalmohan babu offered to buy us bhelpuri. We agreed readily enough, as he was about to come into a lot of money, and could therefore well afford to pay. When packets of bhelpuri were handed to us, we left the crowded spot and moved away to sit on the beach. It was a quarter to seven according to my watch, but the sky was still glowing pink. Like us, several others were relaxing on the beach. Lalmohan babu finished eating, waved his hand in the air, began chanting a Sanskrit shloka, then stopped abruptly. A sheet of newspaper had escaped—possibly from one of the groups sitting nearby—and come flying towards him. Now it was stuck to his face, gagging him momentarily.

He pulled it free, looked at it briefly and had just said, ‘Evening News ’, when Feluda snatched it from his hand. ‘You saw the name of the paper, but didn’t you see the headline?’ Feluda asked. All of us bent over the paper. ‘Murder in Apartment Lift,’ announced the headline. Below it was a photo of the murdered man. No, it was not the man in the red shirt. According to the report, the murder took place between two and two-thirty. The murderer was still at large, but the police had begun their investigation. The murder victim was called Mangalram Sethi. He had been involved with the black market and smugglers for quite some time, and was wanted by the police. Signs of a struggle had been found inside the lift. And the only clue that had been found was a piece of paper, lying by the body. It had a name written on it. The name was . . . ‘Arr-r-rr-r-ghh!’ A strange groan escaped from Lalmohan babu’s throat. I flung my arms around him quickly, in case he fainted. There was plenty of reason to do so. The report ended by saying that the piece of paper found in the lift said, ‘Mr Ganguli, dark, short, bald, moustache.’ As soon as he’d finished reading the report, Lalmohan babu grabbed the paper, whisked it away from Feluda’s hand, tore it into several pieces and let the wind carry them away. ‘Look what you’ve done! You’ve filled this wonderful, clean beach with garbage,’ Feluda complained. Lalmohan babu was still unable to speak. Now Feluda had to be stern. ‘Do you seriously believe that the whole city can figure out from that description that it’s talking about you?’ Lalmohan babu continued to look worried. Then he swallowed hard and finally found his tongue. ‘But. . . but . . . you can see what it means, can’t you? You can guess who’s the murderer?’ Feluda stared fixedly at him for a few seconds, before saying slowly, ‘Laluda, you have spent four years in my company. Even so, you haven’t learnt to think calmly and rationally, have you?’ ‘Why, why—that red shirt—?’ ‘What about it? Even if we assume that it was the fellow in the red shirt who dropped that piece of paper, what does it prove? Who says that he is the murderer? Just think for a minute. Once he had met you and taken that packet from you, he had no further need to keep that piece of paper. So, when he found it in his pocket as he got into the lift, he threw it away, then and there. That’s a perfectly logical and simple explanation. Is that so hard to believe?’ Lalmohan babu refused to be reassured. ‘Never mind all that Felu babu,’ he muttered,