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