I opened my eyes the next morning to find Feluda doing yoga. This meant the sun wasn’t yet up. He had been awake when I went to sleep the previous night, and had worked in the light of a table lamp until quite late. How he had managed to get up at the crack of dawn was a mystery. A slight noise from the veranda made me glance in that direction. To my amazement, I saw Lalmohan Babu standing there, just outside his room, idly putting his favourite red-and-white Signal toothpaste on his toothbrush. Obviously, like us, he was too worked up to sleep peacefully. Feluda finished his yoga and said, ‘I’ll have a cup of tea now, and then go out.’ ‘Where to?’ ‘Nowhere in particular. Just out. I need to clear my brain. Sometimes looking at something enormous and colossal helps get things into perspective. I must stand before the sea and watch the sun rise. It may act like a tonic.’ By the time we finished our tea, many other guests in the hotel were awake, including Mr Barik. Feluda went to see him before going out. ‘Will you book another call to Nepal, please? Here’s the number,’ he said, ‘and if Mahapatra calls, please tell him to leave a message. And—oh—are there good doctors here?’ ‘How many would you like? Of course we have good doctors here, Mr Mitter, you haven’t come to a little village!’ ‘No, no, I know I haven’t. But you see, I need a young and efficient doctor. Not someone doddering with age.’ ‘That’s not a problem. Go to Utkal Chemist in Grand Road after ten o’clock. You’ll find Dr Senapati in his chamber.’ Lalmohan Babu and I decided to go out with Feluda. The beach was deserted except for a few Nulias. The eastern sky glowed red. Grey clouds floated about, their edges a pale pink. The sea was blue-black; only the tops of the waves that crashed on the shore were a bright white. The three Nulia children we had seen on the first day were back on the beach, looking for crabs. ‘The only minus point of this beautiful beach is those crabs,’ Lalmohan Babu remarked, wrinkling his nose in disgust. ‘What’s your name?’ Feluda asked one of the boys. He had a red scarf wound around his head. ‘Ramai,’ he replied, grinning. We walked on. Lalmohan Babu suddenly turned poetic. ‘Look at the sea . . . so wide, so big, so . . . so liberating . . . it’s hard to imagine there’s been bloodshed in a place like this!’ ‘Hm . . . blunt instrument . . .’ Feluda said absently. I knew murder weapons were usually of three kinds: fire arms such as revolvers or pistols; sharp instruments like knives and daggers; or blunt

instruments such as heavy rods or sticks. Feluda was clearly thinking of the attack on him last night. Thank God it was nothing serious. ‘Footprints . . . look!’ Feluda exclaimed suddenly. I looked where he was pointing, and saw fresh marks: footprints, accompanied by the now familiar mark left by a walking stick. ‘Bilas Majumdar! He must be an early riser,’ Lalmohan Babu observed. ‘Do you really think so? Look at that person over there,’ Feluda said, pointing at a figure in the distance. ‘Do you think he looks like Bilas Majumdar?’ It was not difficult to tell, even from a distance, that the man who was walking with a stick in his left hand, was not Mr Majumdar at all. ‘You’re right. It’s someone else. Why, it’s the Sensational Sen!’ Lalmohan Babu shouted. ‘Correct. It’s Durga Gati Sen.’ ‘But how come he’s walking? What about his gout?’ ‘That’s what I’d like to know. Perhaps Laxman Bhattacharya’s medicines can bring about miraculous recoveries, who knows?’ We resumed walking, each of us feeling puzzled. How many mysteries would we finally end up with? The Railway Hotel emerged as we took a left turn. On our right I could see a few Nulias and three foreigners clad in swimming trunks. One of them saw Feluda and raised a hand in greeting. Feluda waved back, explaining quickly that it was the same American who had informed the police from Mr Sen’s house. We walked on. There was Mr Hingorani, walking swiftly, with a towel flung over his shoulder. He was frowning darkly, looking most displeased. He didn’t even glance at us. Feluda left the beach and began climbing up a slope. Something told me he was making his way to Sagarika. Had his brain cleared? Was he beginning to see the light? Before I could ask him anything, however, another voice piped up from somewhere. ‘Good morning!’ it said. Laxman Bhattacharya was standing before us, wearing a lungi tucked in at the waist, a towel on his shoulder and a neem twig in his hand. ‘Good morning. Where were you yesterday evening?’ Feluda asked. ‘Yesterday evening? Oh, I had gone to listen to some keertan. There’s a group in Mangalghat Road. They sing quite well. I go there every now and then.’ ‘You weren’t home when I went looking for you. What time did you leave the house?’ ‘I can get away only after six. That’s when I went.’ ‘I thought you might be able to shed some light on this theft in Mr Sen’s house, since you live in it yourself. It’s possible to see the side lane from your room, isn’t it?’ ‘Yes. In fact, I saw Nishith Bose leave with his luggage through that lane. This did not surprise me at the time, for he was expected to leave for Calcutta, anyway.’ ‘Really? Why?’ ‘His mother was seriously ill. He received a telegram the other day.’ ‘Did you see this telegram?’ ‘Yes, so did Mr Sen.’

‘Why, he didn’t say anything about it!’ Feluda sounded surprised. ‘Well . . . now, what can I say? You’ve seen for yourself the state he’s in. He’s destined to suffer. Who can