The next morning, by the time I got up, Feluda had already called Professor Kanungo and gone over to his house. This surprised me, since I had no idea he was in such a hurry to meet the professor. My plans were different. I had wanted to spend the morning bathing in the sea. Feluda might have accompanied me. I asked Lalmohan Babu, but he said, ‘Look Tapesh, at your age, I used to swim a lot. My butterfly-stroke often earned me applause from onlookers. But a small Calcutta swimming pool is not the same thing as the Bay of Bengal, surely you can see that? Besides, the sea in Puri is extremely treacherous. Had it been the sea in Bombay, I wouldn’t have hesitated.’ He was right. It had rained the night before and was still cloudy and kind of oppressive. So we decided to wait until Feluda got back. ‘Let’s go and have a walk on the beach,’ Lalmohan Babu suggested. I agreed, and we left soon after a breakfast of toast and eggs. Lalmohan Babu seemed to be in a very good mood, possibly as a result of what Laxman Bhattacharya had told him. The beach was totally empty. A few boats were out in the sea, but there was no sign of the Nulia children. A couple of crows were flying about, going near the water as the waves receded, then flitting quickly away as they came surging back again. We walked on. A few minutes later, Lalmohan Babu stopped suddenly. ‘I have heard of people sunbathing on a beach,’ he observed, ‘but do they also cloud-bathe?’ I could see what he meant. A man was lying on his back about fifty yards away, at a spot where the beach ended and a slope began. There was a bush on one side. Had the man chosen to lie down a little to the left, he would have been hidden from sight. ‘Seems a bit odd, doesn’t it?’ Lalmohan Babu whispered. I said nothing, but went forward to have closer look. Why was the man lying here? It certainly did not seem right. Even from ten feet away, he looked as though he was sleeping. But as we went a few steps further, we realized with a shock that he was dead. His eyes were open, and around his head was a pool of blood; or, at least, it had been a pool hours ago, now it was a dark patch on the sand. The man had thick curly hair, thick eyebrows, a heavy moustache and a clear complexion. He was wearing a grey cotton jacket, white trousers and a blue striped shirt. There were shoes on his feet, but no socks. On one of his little fingers he wore a ring with a blue stone. His nails were long and dirty. The front pocket of his jacket was crammed with papers. I was sorely tempted to take them out and go through them quickly, just to find out who the man was. But Lalmohan Babu said, ‘Don’t touch anything.’ There was actually no need to say this, for I knew from experience what one should or should not do in a case like this. ‘We are the first to . . . to . . . discover, I think?’ Lalmohan Babu asked, trying very hard to appear cool and nonchalant. But I could tell his mouth had gone dry. ‘Yes, I think so, too,’ I replied, feeling rather shaken myself. ‘Well, we must report it.’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ We hurried back to the hotel to find that Feluda had returned. ‘Judging by the fact that you forgot to wipe your feet before coming in and spread a few hundred grams of sand all over the floor, I assume you are greatly perturbed about something,’ Feluda announced, looking at Lalmohan Babu. I spoke hastily before Lalmohan Babu could get the chance to exaggerate what we had seen. Feluda heard me in silence, then rang the police to explain in a few succinct words what had happened. Then he turned to me and asked just one question: ‘Did you see a weapon anywhere near the body? A pistol or something?’ ‘No, Feluda.’ ‘But I’m absolutely certain the fellow isn’t a Bengali,’ Lalmohan Babu said firmly. ‘Why do you say that?’ ‘Those eyebrows. They were joined. Bengalis don’t have joined eyebrows. Nor do they have such a strong, firm jaw as this man. I shouldn’t be surprised if he turns out to be from Bundelkhand.’ Feluda, in the meantime, had made an appointment with D.G. Sen. His secretary had asked him to call at 8.30 a.m. and not take more than fifteen minutes of Mr Sen’s time. We left almost immediately. On our way to Mr Sen’s house, we noticed a small crowd near the dead body. It hadn’t taken long for word to spread. This was no doubt a most unusual event. The police were already there. One of the officers spotted Feluda and stepped forward with a smile and an outstretched arm. ‘Inspector Mahapatra!’ Feluda exclaimed, shaking his hand warmly. ‘We met over a case in Rourkela, didn’t we?’ ‘Yes, I recognized you at once. Are you here on holiday?’ ‘Yes, that’s the general idea. Who is the deceased?’ ‘No one from this area. His name is Rupchand Singh.’ ‘How did you find out?’ ‘There was a driving licence.’ ‘Where from?’ ‘Nepal!’ A gentleman wearing glasses made his way through the crowd, pushing the police photographer to one side. ‘I saw the man yesterday. He was at a tea stall in Swargadwar Road. I was buying paan at the next stall. He asked me for a light, and then lit a cigarette.’ ‘How did he die?’ Feluda asked Mr Mahapatra. ‘Shot dead, I think. But we haven’t yet found the weapon. This was tucked inside the driving licence. You may wish to take a look.’ Feluda was handed a visiting card. Printed on one side was