We drove down Jessore Road, and took a right turn after Barasat. This road led straight to Bamungachhi. Mr Samaddar stopped here at a small tea shop and treated us to a cup of tea and jalebis. This took about fifteen minutes. By the time we reached Radharaman Samaddar’s house, it was past eight o’clock. A bungalow stood in the middle of a huge plot of land (it measured seven acres, we were told later), surrounded by a pink boundary wall and rows of eucalyptus trees. The man who opened the gate for us was probably the mali, for he had a basket in his hand. We drove up to the front door, passing a garage on the way. A black Austin stood in it. As I was getting out of the car, a sudden noise from the garden made me look up quickly. I found a boy of about ten standing a few yards away, wearing blue shorts and clutching an air gun. He returned my stare gravely. ‘Is your father at home?’ asked Mr Samaddar. ‘Go tell him Moni Babu from Calcutta has come back, and would like to see him, if he doesn’t mind.’ The boy left, loading his gun. ‘Is that the neighbour’s son?’ Feluda asked. ‘Yes. His father, Abani Sen, is a florist. He has a shop in New Market in Calcutta. He lives right next door. He has his nursery here, you see. Occasionally, he comes and spends a few weeks with his family.’ An old man emerged from the house, looking at us enquiringly. ‘This is Anukul,’ Mr Samaddar said. ‘He had worked for my uncle for over thirty years. He’ll stay on until we know what should be done about the house.’ There was a small hall behind the front door. It couldn’t really be called a room, all it had was a round table in the middle, and a torn calendar on the wall. There were no light switches on the wall as the whole area did not receive any electricity at all. Beyond this hall was a door. Mr Samaddar walked over to it, and said, ‘Look, this is the German lock I told you about. One could buy a lock like this in Calcutta before the Second World War. The combination is eight-two-nine-one.’ It was round in shape, with no provision for a key. There were four grooves instead. Against each groove were written numbers, from one to nine. A tiny object like a hook stuck out of each groove. This hook could be pushed from one end of the groove to the other. It could also be placed next to any of the numbers. It was impossible to open the lock unless one knew exactly which numbers the hooks should be placed against. Mr Samaddar pushed the four hooks, each to rest against a different number—eight, two, nine and one. With a faint click, the lock opened. It seemed almost as though I was in a magic show. ‘Locking

the door is even easier,’ said Mr Samaddar. ‘All you need to do is push any of those hooks away from the right number. Then it locks automatically.’ The door with the German lock opened into Radharaman Samaddar’s bedroom. It was a large room, and it contained all the furniture Radharaman’s nephew had described. What was amazing was the number of instruments the room was packed with. Some of these were kept on shelves, others on a long bench and small tables. Some more hung on the wall. Feluda stopped in the middle of the room and looked around for a few seconds. Then he opened the almirah and the chest, and went through both. This was followed by a search of the table drawers, a small trunk he discovered under the bed (all it revealed was a pair of old shoes and a few rags) and all the instruments in the room. Feluda picked them up, felt their weight and turned them over to see if any of them was meant to be operated by a key. Then he stripped the bed, turned the mattress over, and began tapping on the floor to see if any part of it sounded hollow. It didn’t. It took him another minute to inspect the attached bathroom. He still found nothing. Finally, he said, ‘Could you please ask the mali to come here for a minute?’ When the mali came, he got him to remove the contents of two flower-pots kept under the window. Both pots were empty. ‘All right, you can put everything back into those pots, and thank you,’ he told the mali. In the meantime, Anukul had placed a table and four chairs in the room. He then put four glasses of lemonade on the table, and withdrew. Mr Samaddar handed two glasses to us, and asked, ‘What do you make of all this, Mr Mitter?’ Feluda shook his head. ‘If it wasn’t for those instruments, it would’ve been impossible to believe that a man of means had lived in this room.’ ‘Exactly. Why do you suppose I ran to you for help? I’ve never felt so puzzled in my life!’ Mr Samaddar exclaimed, taking a sip from his glass. I looked at the instruments. I could recognize only a few like the sitar, sarod, tanpura, tabla and a flute. I had never seen any of the others, and I wasn’t sure that Feluda had, either. ‘Do you know what each one of these is called?’ he asked Mr Samaddar. ‘That string instrument that’s hanging from a hook on the wall over there. Can you tell me its name?’ ‘No, sir!’ Mr Samaddar laughed. ‘I know nothing of music. I haven’t the slightest idea of what these might be called, or where they came from.’ There were footsteps outside the room. A moment later, the boy with the airgun arrived with a man of about forty. Mr Samaddar did the introductions. The man was Abani Sen, the florist who