What happened the next day marked the real beginning of this story. But before I talk about it, I must mention the telephone call Feluda received a few hours after Mr Batra’s departure. Lalmohan Babu left at 7 p.m. ‘It looks as though it’s going to rain,’ he said, looking out of the window. ‘I had better be going today. Tell you what, Tapesh, I’ll come back tomorrow. You see, I’ve thought some more about that new plot. I’d like to discuss it with you.’ It began to pour at around eight. The phone call came at 8.45. Feluda took it on the extension in his room. I heard the conversation on the main telephone in the living room. ‘Mr Pradosh Mitter?’ asked a deep, rather refined voice. ‘Speaking.’ ‘You’re the private investigator?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Namaskar. My name is Anikendra Som. I’m calling from the Central Hotel.’ ‘Yes?’ ‘I need to meet you personally. When can I—?’ ‘Is it urgent?’ ‘Yes, very. It’s raining so heavily it might be difficult to go out tonight, but I’d be grateful if you could find some time tomorrow morning. I’ve travelled to Calcutta expressly to meet you. I think you’ll be interested in the reason.’ ‘I don’t suppose you could explain a bit further on the telephone?’ ‘No, I’m sorry.’ ‘All right. How about nine o’clock tomorrow?’ ‘That’s fine. Thank you.’ Mr Som rang off. Two clients in one evening, I thought to myself. At this rate, Feluda would soon have a queue outside our front door! I had recently decided to follow Feluda’s example and started to do yoga in the morning. We were both ready for the day by 8 a.m. Lalmohan Babu rang at half-past eight. ‘I’m on my way to your house,’ he said. ‘I’ll stop on the way at New Market to look at a green jerkin I saw the other day. I need to find out its price.’ He had clearly started making preparations for going to a hill station. More than an hour later, we were still waiting in the living room, but there was no sign of Mr Som. At 9.45, Feluda glanced at his watch and shook his head irritably. I could tell he was about to comment bitterly on Mr Som’s sense of punctuality. But the telephone rang before he could utter a word.

‘Why do I find your phone number in the diary of a murder victim?’ boomed a familiar voice. It was Inspector Mahim Dattagupta, in charge of the Jorasanko police station. Feluda frowned. ‘Who’s been murdered?’ ‘Come to Central Avenue, Central Hotel. Room number 23. All will be revealed.’ ‘Is it Anikendra Som?’ ‘Did you know him?’ ‘No, I was supposed to meet him this morning. How did he die?’ ‘Stabbed.’ ‘When?’ ‘Early this morning. I’ll give you the details when you get here. I arrived about twenty minutes ago.’ ‘I’ll try to get there in half an hour,’ said Feluda. Lalmohan Babu walked in five minutes later, but did not get the chance to sit down. ‘Murder,’ said Feluda briefly, pushing him out of the house. Then he threw him into the back seat of his Ambassador, got in beside him and said to Lalmohan Babu’s driver, Haripada, ‘Central Hotel. Quickly.’ I got in the front with a swift glance at Lalmohan Babu’s face. Shock and bewilderment were writ large, but he knew Feluda wouldn’t tell him anything even if he asked. Haripada drove as fast as the traffic let him. Inspector Dattagupta filled us in when we arrived. Apparently, Anikendra Som had checked in on Sunday evening. The hotel register showed he lived in Kanpur. He was supposed to check out tomorrow. At 5 a.m. this morning, a man came and asked for him. On being given his room number, the man went up, using the stairs, not the lift. He was seen leaving the hotel fifteen minutes later. The hotel staff who had seen him described him as a man of medium height, clean shaven, clad in a blue bush-shirt and grey trousers. The chowkidar said he had a taxi waiting. Mr Som had ordered breakfast at 8 a.m. A waiter arrived on the dot, but when there was no response to his loud knocking, he opened the door with a duplicate key. He found Mr Som’s body sprawled on the floor, stabbed in the chest with a kukri. The knife had not been removed. In due course, the police arrived and searched the room. All they found was a small VIP suitcase with a few clothes in it, and a pair of boots. There was no sign of a wallet or money or any other valuables. Presumably, the killer had removed everything. Feluda went in to have a look at the body. ‘A good looking man,’ he told us afterwards, ‘couldn’t have been more than thirty.’ According to the receptionist, Mr Som had spent most of his time outside the hotel the day before. He had returned an hour before it started raining. Since the rooms did not have telephones, he had used the telephone directory at the reception desk to look up a number. Then he had written it down in his notebook and used the telephone at the reception counter to make a call. The police found the notebook with Feluda’s number in it. It was lying on the floor between the bed and the bedside table. Only the first three pages had been written on. There were disjointed sentences, apparently written at random. ‘What do you make of this?’ Feluda asked, showing me the scribbles. ‘Well, it looks as though a rather shaky hand wrote these words. The word “den”, in particular, is almost illegible.’

‘Perhaps the man was under terrible mental strain,’ remarked Lalmohan Babu. ‘Maybe. Or he may have been travelling at enormous speed. I think those words were written in an aeroplane, and as he was writing the word “den”, the plane dropped into an air pocket.’ ‘Yes, you must be