It was almost the end of February, but it still felt quite cool. The days, however, were now longer than in winter, and until six o’clock, it stayed reasonably bright. By the time we left the restaurant after a cup of coffee and a plate of chicken cutlets, it was a quarter past six. On our way to Princep Ghat, Lalmohan Babu began taking deep breaths every now and then, saying, ‘Aaaaah!’ in order to impress upon passersby that we wanted no more than to enjoy the fresh evening air. It was not a convincing act at all, but luckily, there were so few people about, and even the bhelpuriwallas had been left so far behind, that it did not really matter. It took us ten minutes to reach the pavilion Feluda had mentioned. We found ourselves a bench. After a few moments, Lalmohan Babu glanced around and said, ‘Can you see your cousin anywhere?’ I could not see anyone at all, except boatmen in little boats on the river. The tall pillars around the ghat, each of them a hundred and fifty years old, towered over the water. It was quickly getting dark. If anyone crept up to any of those pillars to either leave a bag or take it, the chances of being seen were almost nil. ‘Look, over there!’ Lalmohan Babu hissed, clutching at my sleeve. I had seen him too. A man wearing white trousers and a dark jacket with a bag in his hand was quietly approaching one of the pillars. Bilash, Ambar Sen’s driver. He disappeared behind the pillar and emerged again a few seconds later. Now his hand was empty. He walked on until he reached the main road, then he turned right and disappeared behind a tree. It was now past six-thirty and almost totally dark. I could see nothing except the first row of pillars. Just for a second I thought I saw something move in the dark, but that could well have been my imagination. Then we saw Mr Sen’s car go past and turn in the direction of the Happy Restaurant. Three young boys in jeans came walking along after this, followed by an elderly European gentlemen with a walking stick. All of them went in the same direction as the car. We rose to our feet, and made our way back to our own car in ten minutes. But where was Feluda? ‘Salaam, babu!’ said a voice from inside the car. I peered quickly and saw an old man sitting next to the driver. He was wearing a lungi. Around his shoulders was a snuff-coloured wrapper, and on his face a heavy stubble. Feluda! Disguised as a Muslim boatman. Before either of us could say anything, Ambuj Sen arrived from across the road. Feluda greeted him, hurriedly explaining why he was in disguise. ‘I had to hide in one of those boats, since the ghat is clearly visible only from the river.’ ‘But what happened, Mr Mitter? What