‘Do you know why the sight of trees and plants have such a refreshing effect on our eyes?’ asked Feluda. ‘The reason is that people, since primitive times, have lived with greenery all around them, so that their eyes have developed a healthy relationship with their environment. Of course, trees in big cities these days have become rather difficult to find. As a result, every time you get away from town, your eyes begin to relax, and so does your mind. It is mostly in cities that you’ll notice people with eye disorders. Go to a village or a hill-station, and you’ll hardly find anyone wearing glasses.’ Feluda himself had a pair of sharp eyes, didn’t wear glasses, and could stare at any object for three minutes and fifteen seconds without blinking even once. I should know, for I had tested him often enough. But he had never lived in a village. I was tempted to point this out to him, but didn’t dare. The chances of having my head bitten off if I did were very high. We were travelling with a man called Monimohan Samaddar. He wore glasses (but then, he lived in a city), was about fifty years old and had sharp features. The hair around his ears had started to turn grey. It was in his Fiat that we were travelling, to a place called Bamungachhi, which was a suburb of Calcutta. We had met Moni Babu only yesterday. He had turned up quite out of the blue in the afternoon, as Feluda and I sat in our living room, reading. I had been watching Feluda reading a book on numerology, raising his eyebrows occasionally in both amazement and appreciation. It was a book about Dr Matrix. Feluda caught me looking at him, and smiled. ‘You’d be astonished to learn the power of numbers, and the role they play in the lives of men like Dr Matrix. Listen to this. It was a discovery Dr Matrix made. You know the names of the two American Presidents who were assassinated, don’t you?’ ‘Yes. Lincoln and Kennedy, right?’ ‘Right. Now tell me how many letters each name has.’ ‘L-i-n-c-o-l-n—seven. K-e-n-n-e-d-y—also seven.’ ‘OK. Now listen, carefully. Lincoln was killed in 1865 and Kennedy died in 1963, a little less than a hundred years later. Both were killed on a Friday, and both had their wives by their side. Lincoln was killed in the Ford Theatre. Kennedy was killed in a car called Lincoln, manufactured by the Ford company. The next President after Lincoln was called Johnson, Andrew Johnson. Kennedy was succeeded by Lyndon Johnson. The first Johnson was born in 1808, the second in 1908, exactly a hundred years later. Do you know who killed Lincoln?’ ‘Yes, but I can’t remember his name right now.’ ‘It was John Wilkes Booth. He was born in 1839. And Kennedy was killed by Lee Harvey Oswald. He was born in 1939! Now count the number of letters in both names.’ ‘Good heavens, both have fifteen letters!’

Feluda might have told me of a few more startling discoveries by Dr Matrix, but it was at this point that Mr Samaddar arrived, without a prior appointment. He introduced himself, adding, ‘I live in Lake Place, which isn’t far from here.’ ‘I see.’ ‘Er . . . you may have heard of my uncle, Radharaman Samaddar.’ ‘Oh yes. He died recently, didn’t he? I believe he was greatly interested in music?’ ‘Yes, that’s right.’ ‘I read an obituary in the local newspaper. I hadn’t heard about him before that, I’m afraid. He was quite old, wasn’t he?’ ‘Yes, he was eighty-two when he died. I’m not surprised that you hadn’t heard of him. When he gave up singing, you must have been a young boy. He retired fifteen years ago, and built a house in Bamungachhi. That is where he lived, almost like a recluse, until his death. He had a heart attack on 18 September, and died the same night.’ ‘I see.’ Mr Samaddar cleared his throat. After a few seconds of silence, he said a little hesitantly, ‘I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve come to disturb you like this. I just wanted to give you a little background, that’s all.’ ‘Of course. Don’t worry, Mr Samaddar, please take your time.’ Moni Babu resumed speaking. ‘My uncle was different from other men. He was actually a lawyer, and he made a lot of money. But he stopped practising when he was about fifty, and turned wholly to music. He didn’t just sing, he could play seven or eight different instruments, both Indian and Western. I myself have seen him play the sitar, the violin, piano, harmonium, flute and the tabla, besides others. He had a passion for collecting instruments. In fact, his house had become a mini-museum of musical instruments.’ ‘Which house do you mean?’ ‘He had started collecting before he left Calcutta. Then he transferred his collection to his house in Bamungachhi. He used to travel widely, looking for instruments. Once he bought a violin from an Italian in Bombay. Only a few months later, he sold it in Calcutta for thirty thousand rupees.’ Feluda had once told me that three hundred years ago, in Italy there had been a handful of people who had produced violins of such high quality that, today, their value was in excess of a hundred thousand rupees. Mr Samaddar continued to speak. ‘As you can see, my uncle was gifted. There were a lot of positive qualities in his character that made him different from most people. But, at the same time, there was an overriding negative factor which eventually turned him into a recluse. He was amazingly tight-fisted. The few relatives he had stopped seeing him because of this. He didn’t seem to mind, for he wasn’t particularly interested in staying in touch with them, anyway.’ ‘How many relatives did he have?’ ‘Not a lot. He had three brothers and two sisters. The sisters and two