We decided to go to the famous temple of Jagannath in the evening before our meeting with Mr Bhattacharya. I was more interested in looking at the chariot. I had learnt from Feluda that every year, the old wooden chariot of Jagannath was broken methodically and a new one built in its place. Toys were made with the broken pieces of wood from the old one and sold in the market. Feluda was not speaking much. Perhaps he was thinking of all the new people we had met and what they had said to us. There was one little thing that I felt I had to say to him. ‘Have you noticed, Feluda,’ I said, ‘how everything seems to be related to Nepal? The man who got murdered was from Nepal, Bilas Majumdar went to Kathmandu, and so did D.G. Sen . . .’ ‘So? You think that has a special significance?’ ‘Well, yes, I mean . . .’ ‘There is no reason to assume anything of the kind. It’s most probably no more than a coincidence.’ ‘OK, if you say so.’ Having seen the famous chariot, we were roaming around in the huge street market in front of the temple, looking at tiny statues and wheels of Konark being carved out of stone, when suddenly we bumped into Inspector Mahapatra. It took me a few seconds to recognize him, for he had had a haircut. One look at his new, freshly cropped hair reminded me of an uncle who always used to fall asleep the minute he sat in a barber’s chair. When he woke up, the barber would show him his handiwork, which would invariably result in a violent argument. Inspector Mahapatra seemed to be a man who had a lot in common with my uncle. ‘Hello, Inspector!’ Feluda greeted him. ‘Any progress? Did you manage to contact Mr Sarkar of Meher Ali Road?’ ‘We received some information this afternoon,’ the Inspector replied. ‘Fourteen Meher Ali Road is a block of apartments. There are eight apartments. Mr Sarkar lives in number three. His flat’s been locked for a week. Apparently, he goes out of town quite frequently.’ ‘Do you know where he’s gone this time?’ ‘Puri.’ ‘Really? Who told you that?’ ‘The occupant in flat number 4. He’s supposed to be here on holiday.’ ‘Did you get a description?’ ‘Yes, but it doesn’t really mean anything. Medium height, clean-shaven, age between thirty-five and forty.’ ‘What does he do?’ ‘He calls himself a travelling salesman. No one seems to know what he sells. He took that flat a year ago.’

‘And Rupchand Singh?’ ‘He arrived in Puri yesterday, and checked in at a hotel near the bus stand. He didn’t even pay his bill. Last night, he had tried making a call from his hotel, but the phone was out of order. So he went to a chemist across the road and used their phone. The chemist saw him, but didn’t hear what he said on the phone as he was busy serving his customers. Rupchand left the hotel at eleven, but did not return. We found a suitcase in his room with a few clothes in it. They were good clothes, well-made and expensive.’ ‘That’s not surprising. A driver these days earns pretty well. So I don’t think Rupchand found it too difficult to be able to afford a few good things in life.’ Inspector Mahapatra left soon after this. We made our way to the Railway Hotel, where Mr Majumdar was waiting for us. We reached there at a quarter to six. The hotel had obviously been built during the British times. It had been renovated, but there was, even today, an old-fashioned air about it. In the large front garden, guests were drinking tea under garden umbrellas. Mr Majumdar rose from a table and came forward to meet us, with a brief ‘Excuse me’ to his companions. ‘OK, let’s go and find out what’s in store,’ he remarked. Lalmohan Babu was our guide today. His whole demeanour had changed. When we reached Sagarika, he walked straight up the cobbled path and climbed on to the veranda, knocking the front door smartly. When no one appeared, he looked around just a little uncertainly, then pulled himself together and shouted ‘Koi hai?’ with a ring of such authority in his voice that we all looked at him in surprise. A side door opened instantly. ‘Welcome!’ said Laxman Bhattacharya. He was wearing a silk lungi and a fine cotton embroidered kurta. There was nothing remarkable in his appearance, except a thin moustache that drooped down, nearly touching the edge of his chin. Lalmohan Babu began introductions, but was interrupted. ‘Please come in,’ Mr Bhattacharya invited, ‘we can get to know each other when we’re comfortably seated.’ We went into his sitting room, most of which was occupied by a large divan. This was probably where he worked. We took the chairs and stools that were strewn about. Apart from these, the room had no furniture. There was a built-in cupboard, the lower shelves of which were visible. Papers and wooden boxes had been crammed into them. There also appeared to be a few jars and bottles. ‘Could you please sit here?’ Mr Bhattacharya looked at Bilas Majumdar and pointed at the divan. Mr Majumdar rose and took his place. Lalmohan Babu quickly introduced us. ‘This is the friend I told you about,’ he said, indicating Feluda, ‘and the gentleman here is a famous wil—’ he stopped, biting his lip. I knew he was about to say ‘wildlife photographer’, but had had the sense to check himself. Feluda said hurriedly, ‘I hope you don’t mind two extra people in the room?’ ‘No, not at all. The only thing I do mind is being asked to perform on a stage. Many people have asked me to do that, as if I were a magician. Why, only this other—’ Laxman Bhattacharya stopped speaking. I glanced at him quickly to find him staring