Feluda had to miss breakfast that day. Once Lalmohan Babu had recovered somewhat, we went to the Railway Hotel as it was closer and rang the police from there. Then we returned to our own hotel. Feluda left us soon afterwards. ‘I have a few things to do, particularly in the Nulia colony, so I’ve got to go,’ he said. He had already told us—even without touching the body—that Mr Bose had been killed with a blunt instrument, though there was no sign of the weapon. Who knew when Lalmohan Babu had called the broken old Bhujanga Niwas the ‘House of Death’, he was actually speaking the truth? There was, however, a piece of good news. D.G. Sen and his son appeared to have got back together. While coming out of Bhujanga Niwas, I happened to glance at Sagarika and saw both father and son on the roof. Mahim Sen gave us a cheerful wave, so presumably all was well. How this sudden change in their relationship had occurred, I could not tell. It was most mystifying. Feluda returned at a quarter to eleven. I suddenly remembered he had booked a call to Nepal. ‘Did your call come through?’ I asked. ‘Yes, I just finished speaking.’ ‘Did you call Kathmandu?’ ‘No, Patan. It’s an old town near Kathmandu, on the other side of the river Bagmati.’ ‘Felu Babu,’ Lalmohan Babu squeaked, ‘I can’t get over the shock. Look, I am still shivering.’ ‘Do stop, Lalmohan Babu. At least, save some of it for tonight.’ ‘Why—what is happening tonight?’ ‘Tonight,’ Feluda replied calmly, ‘we’ll have to stand—not on one leg, mind you—but stand still and wait.’ ‘Where?’ ‘You’ll see.’ ‘Why? What for?’ ‘You’ll learn, by and by.’ Lalmohan Babu opened his mouth once more, then shut it, looking crestfallen. But then, like me, he wasn’t unfamiliar with the kind of mood Feluda was in. One could ask him a thousand questions, but he wouldn’t give a straight answer. ‘Dr Senapati is quite a smart young doctor,’ Feluda said, changing the subject. ‘Why, have you been to his clinic already?’ I asked. ‘Yes. He has been treating Mr D.G. Sen. He went to America last April. It was he who brought that medicine.’

‘Diapid?’ The name had got stuck in my memory for some reason. ‘Since you ask, I can tell you’ll never need to use it yourself,’ Feluda laughed. God knows what this cryptic remark meant. I didn’t dare ask. Inspector Mahapatra rang an hour later. The police surgeon had finished his examination. According to him, Nishith Bose had been killed between 6 and 8 p.m. last evening, with a blunt instrument. There was still no sign of the weapon. But the police had found traces of blood under the sand below the veranda. Presumably, the murder took place near the front gate. Mr Bose’s body was then dragged inside. A sudden idea flashed through my mind, but I chose not to say anything to Feluda. Could it be possible that whoever killed Mr Bose had attacked Feluda, using the same instrument? Perhaps that was why there was blood on his head, even without an open wound? At around half past twelve, I began to feel hungry. Lalmohan Babu, too, started to comment on the heavenly smell emanating from the kitchen. But, at this moment, Bilas Majumdar turned up. ‘Would you like to go?’ he asked without any preamble. ‘Where to?’ Feluda asked, busily scribbling something in his notebook. ‘A place called Keonjhargarh, in an airconditioned limousine supplied by the tourist department. There’s room for six. But I found only one other person to go with me, an American called Steadman. He’s a wildlife enthusiast as well. You’ll find it interesting, I’m sure, if you come with us.’ ‘When are you leaving?’ ‘Straight after lunch.’ ‘No, thank you. I’m afraid I’ve got some work this afternoon. In fact, if you could stay back for a few hours, I might be able to show you a sample of the wildlife in Puri!’ ‘No, Mr Mitter, thank you very much.’ Mr Majumdar smiled and left. A minute later, we heard a heavy American car start. Then it turned around and sped towards the north. When was the last time I had been under such tense excitement? I couldn’t remember. We had dinner at nine that evening. An hour later, Feluda announced it was time to go. ‘You’ll have to be suitably dressed,’ he told me. ‘Don’t wear kurta-pajamas, and don’t wear white. I don’t need to tell you what you must wear to hide in the dark, do I?’ No, there was no need to do that, I thought, my mind going back to our experience in the graveyard in Park Street. ‘My instincts tell me something is going to happen tonight,’ Feluda added, ‘but there is no guarantee that it will. So prepare yourselves for possible disappointment.’ I looked at the sky as we went out, and saw that there were no stars. Lalmohan Babu, who had formed a habit of looking up at the sky every now and then (not in search of stars or the moon, but for signs of the skylab), quickly raised his head and said, ‘Had the wind been blowing in a different direction, the pieces might have fallen into the sea. Now . . . anything can happen.’ Although Bhujanga Niwas was surrounded by sand, the actual beach was about fifty yards away from it. There were a few makeshift shelters where the beach started, presumably for the guests in the Railway Hotel who came to bathe in the sea. Large reed mats had been fixed over bamboo poles to create these shelters. Feluda stopped beside one of these. Behind us was the sea, still roaring loudly,

but now hardly visible in the dark. If anyone went walking past our shelter, we’d be able to see his figure, but we might not recognize him. There was no chance of being seen ourselves. Feluda could not have