Feluda had told Mr Dhar that he would take a day to make up his mind. But within an hour of Mr Dhar’s departure, he decided that he would go to Rajasthan. When he told me about it, I asked, ‘I am going with you, aren’t I?’ ‘If you can name five places in Rajasthan that have forts—all within a minute—then you might stand a chance.’ ‘Jodhpur, Jaipur, Chittor, Bikaner and . . . and . . . Bundi!’ Feluda glanced at his watch and sprang to his feet. It took him exactly three and a half minutes to change from a kurta pyjama into a shirt and trousers. ‘It’s Sunday, so Fairlie Place will stay open till twelve o’clock. Let me go quickly and make our reservations,’ he said. It was one o’clock by the time Feluda returned. The first thing he did upon his return was to look up Hemanga Hajra’s phone number in the directory and ring him. When I asked him why he was calling someone who was out of town, Feluda said, ‘I needed proof that what Mr Dhar told us was true.’ ‘And did you get it?’ ‘Yes.’ After lunch, Feluda spent the whole afternoon stretched on his bed, a pillow tucked under his chest, going through five different books. Two of them were Pelican books on parapsychology. Feluda said he had borrowed them from a friend. Of the others, one was Todd’s book on Rajasthan, the second was called A Guide to India, Pakistan, Burma and Ceylon, and the third was a book on Indian history, but I can’t remember who wrote it. In the evening, when we’d had our tea, Feluda said, ‘Get ready, we’re going out. We need to visit Mr Dhar.’ By this time, I had told Baba about our plans. He was very pleased to hear that we were going to Rajasthan. He had been there twice in his childhood with my grandfather. ‘Don’t miss Chittor,’ he told me. ‘The fort in Chittor is quite awe-inspiring. It’s easy enough to guess what made the Rajputs such brave warriors.’ We arrived at Mr Dhar’s house at around half past six. When he heard that Feluda was prepared to go to Rajasthan, Mr Dhar looked both relieved and grateful. ‘I do not know how to thank you!’ he exclaimed. ‘It isn’t yet time to start thanking me, Mr Dhar. You must assume that we are going purely as tourists, not because you asked us to. Anyway, we have very little time. There are two things we need. One is a photo of your son. The other is a chat with Neelu, that boy who was kidnapped.’ ‘Let me see what I can do. Usually, Neelu is never at home in the evenings, especially now that Puja is round the corner. But I don’t think that today he’ll be allowed to go out on his own. Wait, I’ll get that photo.’

Shivratan Mukherjee, the solicitor, lived only three houses away, on the same side of the road. We found him at home, having a cup of tea in his living room with another gentleman. Mr Mukherjee’s visitor seemed to have a skin disease—there were white patches on his face. When Mr Dhar explained why we were there, Mr Mukherjee remarked, ‘My grandson seems to have become quite famous, thanks to your son! Please sit down. Manohar!’ Manohar turned out to be his servant. ‘Bring more tea,’ Mr Mukherjee told him, ‘and see if you can find Neelu. Tell him I’ve sent for him.’ We found ourselves three chairs placed by the side of a large table. The walls on both sides were covered by very tall bookcases, almost reaching the ceiling. They were crammed with fat tomes. Feluda had once told me that no one needed to consult books as much as a lawyer. While we were waiting for Neelu, I had a look at Mukul’s photo. It had been taken on their roof. The little boy was standing in the sun, frowning straight at the camera. There was no smile on his face. Mr Mukherjee said, ‘We asked Neelu a lot of questions, too. At first, he was in such a state of shock that he wasn’t talking at all. Now he appears more normal.’ ‘Have the police been told?’ Feluda asked. ‘Yes, we told the police when he went missing. But he came back before the police could do anything.’ The servant returned with Neelu. Mr Dhar was right. Neelu did bear a strong resemblance to the boy in the photo. He looked at us suspiciously. Clearly, he had not yet got over his ordeal. Suddenly, Feluda asked him, ‘Did you hurt your hand, Neelu?’ Mr Mukherjee opened his mouth to say something, but Feluda made a gesture and stopped him. Neelu answered the question himself. ‘When they pulled my hand, it burned a lot.’ There was a cut over his wrist, clearly visible. ‘They? You mean there was more than one person?’ ‘One man covered my eyes and my mouth. Then he picked me up and put me in a car. Another man drove the car. I felt very scared.’ ‘So would I,’ Feluda told him. ‘In fact, I would have felt much more scared than you. You are very brave. When they caught you, what were you doing?’ ‘I was going to Moti’s house. They have a Durga Puja in their house. I wanted to see the idol. Moti is in my class.’ ‘Was it very quiet in the streets? Not many people about?’ ‘The day before yesterday,’ Mr Mukherjee informed us, ‘we had some trouble here. A bomb went off. So, since last evening, there have been fewer people out in the streets.’ Feluda nodded and said, ‘Hmm.’ Then he turned to Neelu once more. ‘Where did they take you?’ ‘I don’t know. They tied a cloth over my eyes. The car drove on and on.’ ‘And then?’ ‘Then they made me sit in a chair. One