Feluda placed an ice-pack on his head as soon as we reached our hotel. In half an hour, the swelling began to subside. None of us had any idea who might have hurt him. He was returning from Sagarika, Feluda said, when someone had flashed a powerful torch straight into his eyes, blinding him momentarily, and then knocked him unconscious. When he rang Mahapatra at the police station and reported the matter, Mahapatra said, ‘You must take great care, Mr Mitter. There are a lot of desperate characters about. Why don’t you stop your own investigation and let us handle this? Wouldn’t that be safer?’ ‘If you had suggested this before I was attacked, I might have agreed. Now, Inspector, it is too late.’ When we came back to our room after dinner, it was nearly eleven. Rather unexpectedly, our manager, Mr Barik, turned up, accompanied by another gentleman. ‘He has been waiting for you for half an hour. I didn’t want to disturb you while you were eating,’ he said and returned to his room. ‘I have heard of you,’ the other man said to Feluda. ‘In fact, having read about some of your past cases, I even know who your companions are. My name is Mahim Sen.’ Feluda frowned. ‘That means—?’ ‘D.G. Sen is my father.’ None of us could think of saying anything for a moment. Mahim Sen went on, ‘I came by car this afternoon. My company owns a guest house here. That’s where I am staying.’ ‘Didn’t you meet your father?’ ‘I rang him as soon as I got here. His secretary answered, and said after checking with my father that he did not wish to speak to me.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘I have no idea.’ ‘When I met your father recently, I got the impression that he wasn’t very pleased with you. Can you tell me why?’ Mahim Sen did not reply immediately. He took out a packet of Rothmans from his pocket, and extracted a cigarette. He then lit it, inhaled and said, ‘Look, I was never close to my father. I took no interest in his passion for manuscripts—I simply don’t have the eye for art and antiques. I live in Calcutta and work for a private company. Sometimes I have to go abroad on business tours. But despite all this, I used to be on fairly good terms with my father. If I wrote to him, he always replied to my letters. I visited him twice with my family after he moved to Puri, and spent a few weeks on the first floor of his house. He was—and perhaps still is—extremely fond of my eight-year-old son. But his behaviour on this occasion just doesn’t make any sense to me. I can hardly believe that a strong man like him has gone senile at the age of sixty-two. I do not even know if a third person is responsible for this. So when I heard you were in town, I thought I’d come and see you.’

‘How long has your father had this secretary?’ ‘About four years. I saw him when I came in ’76.’ ‘What kind of a man do you think he is?’ ‘That’s difficult to say, I hardly knew him. All I can say is that he may be good at keeping papers and files in order and typing letters, but I’m sure my father couldn’t talk to him as he would to a friend.’ ‘Well then, you ought to know this: a most valuable manuscript in your father’s collection has been stolen, and his secretary has vanished.’ Mahim Sen’s jaw fell open. ‘What! Did you actually go there?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘How did you find my father?’ ‘In a state of shock, naturally. Apparently, he has recently started to sleep in the afternoon, and he takes something to help him sleep. Today, an American was supposed to meet him at half past six. Nishith Bose had made this appointment. But, he wasn’t there to take this visitor up to meet your father. A servant met him downstairs and accompanied him. Normally, Mr Sen gets up by four o’clock, but today he slept till six. Anyway, he was up when this American arrived and said he wanted to take a look at the oldest manuscript. Your father then opened the safe in which it was kept, but discovered that, wrapped in red silk, were masses of white strips of paper. These were placed between two small wooden bars, so it was impossible to tell without unwrapping the packet that the real manuscript had gone. When he realized his most precious possession had been stolen, your father became so distressed that eventually the American visitor informed the police.’ ‘Does that mean it was Nishith Bose who—?’ ‘That’s what it looks like. I met him this morning at the railway station. Now it seems he had gone to buy a ticket. The police made enquiries at the station, but by then, the Puri Express and other trains to Calcutta had left. They’re still trying to trace him.’ Feluda stopped speaking. None of us knew what to say. Such a lot had happened in the last few hours—it made my head reel. ‘Did you know your father had gone to Nepal last year?’ Feluda asked. ‘If he went after August, I wouldn’t know, for I was abroad for seven months, starting from August. Father used to travel quite a lot to look for manuscripts. Why, what happened in Nepal?’ Feluda said nothing in reply, but asked another question instead. ‘Are you aware that your father’s got gout?’ Mahim Sen looked completely taken aback. ‘Gout? My father’s got gout? What are you saying, Mr Mitter?’ ‘Why, is that so difficult to believe?’ ‘Yes, it is. I saw Father last May. He used to go for long, brisk walks on the beach. He’s always been careful with his diet, never drank or smoked, or done anything that might damage his health. In fact, he’s always been rather