owhere in this country,’ said Lalmohan Babu—alias Jatayu—in an admiring tone, ‘will you find a market like our New Market!’ Feluda and I were in full agreement. Some time ago, there had been talk of pulling it down to build a modern multi-storey supermarket in its place. This had seriously upset Feluda. ‘Don’t they realize,’ I had heard him fume, ‘that if New Market is destroyed, it would mean the destruction of the very spirit of Calcutta? If they do go ahead, I hope the citizens will not hesitate to take to the streets in protest!’ Luckily, the proposal was dropped. We were now standing opposite New Market, having just seen Ape and Superape at the Globe. Lalmohan Babu needed batteries for his torch and a refill for his ball-point pen. Feluda wanted a packet of daalmut from Kalimuddi’s shop. Besides, Lalmohan Babu wanted to go around the whole market to inspect its nooks and crannies. ‘Only yesterday, you see, I got the most wonderful idea for a ghost story that can take place right here in the market!’ he told me. We stepped into the traffic to cross the road, making our way carefully through endless private cars and taxis. Lalmohan Babu began to give me the details of his plot. ‘There is this man, you see, a retired judge. One day, he comes to this market in the evening and discovers, a few hours later, that he can’t get out! All shops are closed, all lights have been switched off, and he just can’t find an exit. Every dark corridor is empty, except for an old antiques shop in a small, narrow alley. There is only a flickering light in this shop. This man runs towards the shop, in the hope of finding help. Just as he reaches it, an arm comes out of the darkness. It is the arm of a skeleton, a dagger clutched in its hand, dripping with blood. It is the skeleton of a murderer, on whom the judge had once passed a death sentence. He has come back to take his revenge. The judge starts running blindly through the dark corridors, but it’s no use. No matter how fast he runs or where he goes, he can still see the skeleton’s arm, getting closer. . . and closer.’ Not bad, I thought quietly to myself; an idea like this certainly had possibilities, although I was sure he’d have to appeal to Feluda for help, if only to produce a plausible explanation for the retired judge getting locked in. We had, by now, come into the market. In front of us was a shop selling electrical goods. Lalmohan Babu could buy his batteries there and a refill for his pen from the shop opposite. The owner of Dey Electricals knew Feluda. He greeted us with a smile. We were followed almost immediately by another man—about forty years of age, medium height, a receding hairline, wearing a white bush-shirt and black trousers. In his hand was a plastic bag. ‘You’re Mr Mitter, aren’t you?’ he asked. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘A man in that book shop over there pointed you out. “The famous investigator, Pradosh Mitter,” he said. It was really strange because I have been thinking of you for the last couple of days.’ ‘Really? Why?’ The man cleared his throat. Was he feeling nervous for some reason? ‘I’ll explain later if you allow me to call on you,’ he said. ‘Will you be home tomorrow?’ ‘Yes, but only after 5 p.m.’ ‘Very well. May I please have your address?’ He took out a notebook and a fountain pen from his pocket, and handed them over to Feluda. Feluda wrote down our address and returned the notebook and pen to the gentleman. ‘Sorry,’ he said, looking ruefully at Feluda’s finger, which was slightly smeared with violet ink. His pen was obviously leaking. ‘My name is Batra,’ he added. Lalmohan Babu had gone to buy a refill. He returned just as Mr Batra left. ‘Have you found yourself a client already?’ he asked. Feluda smiled, but did not say anything. The three of us came out, and began walking in the direction of the daalmut shop. Lalmohan Babu took out a red notebook and began scribbling in it. This meant, inevitably, that he got left behind each time he stopped to make a note. Then he had to rush forward to catch up with us. Feluda was walking in silence, looking straight ahead, but I knew his eyes and ears were taking in every detail. The market was very crowded today, possibly because Puja was just round the corner. Lalmohan Babu said something about the crowd. I only caught the word ‘cosmopolitan’, but couldn’t ask him to repeat what he had said, for we had arrived at Kalimuddi’s shop. ‘Salaam, Babu,’ he said and began making up a packet for us. He knew what we wanted. I loved watching the way he mixed all the masala, shaking the packet gently. Its contents, I knew, would taste heavenly. He finished in a few moments and passed the packet to me. Feluda put his hand into his pocket to take out his wallet, and turned into a statue. What on earth was the matter? What was he staring at? Had his wallet been stolen? It took me a moment to realize what it was. Feluda’s wallet was quite safe, but he was still staring at the man who had just walked past us, glancing once in our direction without the slightest sign of recognition. He looked exactly like Mr Batra. ‘Twins,’ whispered Lalmohan Babu. I felt inclined to agree with him. Only an identical twin could bear such a startling resemblance. The only difference was that this man was wearing a dark blue shirt. And, of course, he didn’t seem to know Feluda at all, ‘There’s nothing to feel so amazed about, really,’ Feluda remarked. ‘So what if Mr Batra has a twin? Dozens of people do!’ ‘No,