A right turn from the main crossing outside our hotel led to Shukra Path, which ran straight on to join a shopping complex. A large covered area stood packed with rows of small departmental stores. Each one of them sold imported stuff, ranging from clothes, watches, tape recorders, radios and calculators, to writing material, sweets and chocolates. ‘I feel like howling!’ Lalmohan Babu proclaimed, standing outside one of these shops. ‘Why?’ ‘All these shops, dear boy, just look at all those goodies! They are not meant for people like us, are they? I’m sure all these shops are patronized by people like . . . like . . . John D. Rockefeller, or superstars from Bombay, perhaps?’ In the end, however, he succumbed to temptation and bought two metres of light orange Japanese terrywool. ‘I need new trousers,’ he told me. The shop offered to have them tailored by 4 p.m. the next evening. ‘That colour would be most apt for the Land of the Lamas, wouldn’t you say?’ he asked, emerging from the shop, looking immensely pleased. I didn’t want to cast a damper, but felt obliged to point out that Nepal could hardly be called the Land of the Lamas, since eighty per cent of the population was Hindu. We came back to the hotel to find Feluda scribbling in his notebook. ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘I’ve called a doctor.’ Doctor? Was he unwell? We promptly sat on the sofa, fixing anxious eyes on him. Feluda took a couple of minutes to finish writing. Then he pushed aside the notebook and explained, ‘I’ve called Dr Divakar, the same doctor who had given the tetanus injection to Himadri Chakravarty. He normally sees patients at the Star Dispensary on Dharma Path. I will, of course, have to pay him his fee, but that cannot be helped. I’d much rather talk to him here.’ ‘Drugs and medicines seem to play an important role in this investigation,’ Lalmohan Babu observed. ‘Not just important, Lalmohan Babu,’ Feluda said. ‘I believe in this whole sad business, they play a crucial role.’ ‘What about that surgical acid Mr Som’s notebook mentioned? Is it—’ ‘Lysergic Acid, not surgical. But then—’ Feluda picked up his notebook again, frowning. ‘The term LSD can mean something else. It occurred to me only a few minutes ago. You see, LSD could also stand for Life Saving Drugs, such as anti-tetanus serum, or things like penicillin, teramycin, streptomycin, drugs to fight TB and heart problems. I think,’ Feluda glanced at his notebook, ‘where it says “find out about AB”, it’s referring

to these drugs. AB could mean antibiotics. Mr Som was clearly trying to find out more about these. “Ring up PCM, DDC”— well, PCM is Pradosh Chandra Mitter, and DDC is probably the Directorate of Drug Control. It’s likely that Mr Som had a sample of a drug that he wanted people at Drug Control to test. It’s amazing how methodically he was working. With a brain like that, he could have been a sleuth himself!’ ‘Didn’t the letters “CP” feature somewhere?’ ‘That’s easy. It stands for Calcutta Police. Here, it says “Ask CP about methods and past cases.”’ ‘That would mean you’ve decoded everything—’ The door bell rang. I opened the door. The man who walked in startled me somewhat, for I had never seen a doctor so impeccably dressed. His suit must have been made by the best tailor in Kathmandu. He wore glasses with gold frames. The watch on his wrist was obviously imported, and expensive. A gift from a grateful patient, perhaps? Since Feluda was sitting on the bed, the doctor assumed he was the patient. He walked over to him and asked, ‘What’s wrong?’ I offered him a chair. Feluda had risen, but at the doctor’s question, sat down again. Then he took out an envelope from under his pillow and held it out. ‘Here you are,’ he said. Dr Divakar looked quite taken aback. ‘What is this?’ ‘This contains your fee. And this is my visiting card.’ Dr Divakar sat down, looking curiously at Feluda’s card. ‘I realize I have some explaining to do,’ Feluda went on, ‘and I apologize for dragging you out like this. Allow me to tell you first of all that I am here to investigate a murder. It happened in Calcutta, but I have reason to believe the killer is in Kathmandu. I am trying to gather as much information as I can. I believe you can help me.’ Dr Divakar’s brows were knitted in a frown. ‘Who was murdered?’ he asked. ‘I’m coming to that. Please let me verify something first. Was it you who gave an anti-tetanus shot to Harinath Chakravarty’s son, Himadri?’ ‘Yes, that’s right.’ ‘Did the injection come from your own stock?’ ‘Yes, from my dispensary.’ ‘But it did not work, did it?’ ‘No, but surely you don’t think I am responsi—’ ‘No, no, Dr Divakar, nobody’s blaming you, or trying to establish who was responsible. After all, a case like this is, by no means, unique. Most people accept it quietly. Harinath Babu did the same. What I want to know is whether you, as a doctor, have any ideas or theories about the reason behind Himadri’s death.’ ‘There may well be more than one reason,’ Dr Divakar replied. ‘Firstly, Himadri couldn’t tell me for sure when he had cut his hand. His friend thought it was about sixteen hours before they came to me. Now, if his friend was wrong and it was twenty-six hours instead of sixteen, then by the time that shot was given it was too late. Secondly, no one knew whether he had ever taken a preventive. If he had, the injection might have worked. His father seemed to think he had, but Himadri wasn’t sure.

Harinath Babu might have been mistaken. After the death of his wife and the other son, his memory, I have noticed, fails him at times.’ ‘All right. But did Himadri’s friend take an