There was no point in disturbing Mr Sen’s old and ailing mother, so we said goodbye to the Sens and got into their Ambassador. Their driver, Bilash Babu, took us to the riverside and parked the car in front of the Happy Restaurant. ‘This is where Mr Sen used to get out of the car,’ he said, ‘and then he used to start walking in that direction,’ he pointed to the southern side. ‘He always came back in exactly an hour.’ ‘Did you usually wait in the car?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘How long have you been working for Mr Sen?’ ‘Nine years.’ ‘Then you wouldn’t know about the accident, I suppose?’ ‘What accident?’ ‘About twelve years ago, Ambar Sen had run a man over and killed him.’ ‘Ambar Babu?’ ‘Why is that so surprising?’ ‘I didn’t know he could drive at all.’ ‘He stopped driving after that incident.’ ‘I see. It might not have been his fault. Sometimes pedestrians don’t obey traffic rules either. It is not fair to blame the driver each time an accident takes place. In fact, I am surprised more people don’t get run over every day!’ ‘Could you describe what happened when Mr Sen did not return from his walk this morning? What did you do?’ ‘When he didn’t show up after an hour, I drove up to Hastings to look for him. I stopped from time to time to ask people if anyone had seen him. At one or two places, I even got out of the car to look for him. His heart wasn’t particularly strong, you see, so I was afraid he might have had a stroke or something.’ ‘Were there a lot of people about?’ ‘Well yes, quite a few people normally come here for morning walks. But Mr Sen used to go towards the new Howrah Bridge, where it’s always quiet. If a couple of strong men were to jump out of a car and kidnap him, I don’t think he’d get even the chance to shout for help. I mean, if that’s what happened, it’s not surprising that no one saw or heard anything.’ We then drove slowly up to Hastings, but could see nothing suspicious on the way.

The next two days passed without any news from Palm Avenue. Jatayu turned up in the evening on Thursday, and said, ‘What news of Ambar Sen, Felu Babu?’ On being told that he had disappeared, his eyes nearly popped out. ‘What! Disappeared? And you thought it was all a big joke? It’s amazing, isn’t it, how all your cases—even the seemingly insignificant ones—always turn out to be thrilling in the end?’ ‘We haven’t yet reached the end of this one, Lalmohan Babu. Anyway, tell me about your new neighbour, that great scholar called Mrityunjay Som. How is he?’ ‘Great scholar? Ha! He’s nothing of the sort.’ ‘No? Only a couple of days ago you were prepared to swear he was the best. What made you change your mind?’ ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘I am too embarrassed, Felu Babu. I couldn’t possibly tell you what happened.’ ‘Come on, of course you could. You’ve known me for years, so why should you feel embarrassed to tell me anything?’ After a little more persuasion, Lalmohan Babu came clean. ‘Just imagine, Felu Babu,’ he said, ‘this man hadn’t heard of you! When I told him I knew you, he looked totally blank and said, “Who is Pradosh Mitter?”’ ‘Is that all? Never mind, Lalmohan Babu, it does not matter. After all, I had not heard of this great scholar either, had I? I mean a double MA from Herbert . . . there can’t be too many of those, I’m sure.’ This seemed to reassure Lalmohan Babu. ‘Yes, you are right. How is it possible to know every single soul in this big, wide world? Besides, this man has spent most of his life abroad. So I guess one ought to forgive him.’ The phone rang before Feluda could say anything. It was Ambuj Sen from Palm Avenue. They had received another anonymous note, he said. On Feluda’s request, he read it out on the phone: If you wish Ambar Sen to be restored to you in one piece, get twenty thousand rupees in hundred-rupee notes, put it all in a bag and leave the bag by a pillar on the south-eastern side of Princep Ghat, at 6.30 p.m. tomorrow (Friday). If you try informing the police or a detective, the consequences would be disastrous. This is your only chance to get Ambar Sen back. ‘Very well, there is no need to take any decision right now,’ said Feluda. ‘We’ve got nearly twenty- four hours to work things out. I have a few things to do tomorrow, but I’ll come to your house in the afternoon around two o’clock and tell you what to do next. But you must get the money somehow. That is very important.’ He put the phone down. ‘Er . . . didn’t the note say something about not informing a detective?’ Lalmohan Babu asked immediately. ‘Yes, so it did,’ Feluda replied briefly. Things had suddenly started to move like a speeding rocket. Twenty thousand rupees was a lot of money, but what could the Sens do but pay up? After five minutes of complete silence, Feluda spoke again. ‘Lalmohan Babu, could I use your car tomorrow?’ ‘Of course, any time. When do you want it?’

‘Say around half past nine in the morning? I need to go out. I don’t think I’ll take more than a couple of hours to finish my work. Then I’ll send your car back, but could you please return at five o’clock?’ ‘Very well.’ Feluda lapsed into silence after this. True to his word, Lalmohan Babu sent his car at half past nine the following morning. Feluda went out alone, so I couldn’t tell where he went or what he did. But I did notice that when he returned at