Nihar Datta’s bedroom turned out to be large. An old-fashioned bed took up quite a lot of room on one side. A small, round table stood by the bed. On it was a glass of water covered with a lid, and about ten tablets sealed in aluminium foil. Perhaps they were sleeping pills. Next to the table was a window. An easy chair was placed before it. Clearly, the chair had been in use for a long time, for its backrest had developed a dark patch. It could be that Nihar Datta spent much of his time resting in that chair. In addition to this furniture, there was a desk with a flickering candle on it; a steel chair faced the desk, which had writing material on it, a rack to store letters, an old typewriter, and a pile of scientific journals. A steel Godrej safe stood by the desk, to the left of the door. Feluda ran his eye quickly over the whole room before taking out a mini torch from his pocket to examine the keyhole on the safe. ‘Yes, someone did try very hard to open it. It’s full of scratches.’ Then he moved to the table and picked up the tablets. ‘Soneril . . . yes, I thought as much! If Mr Datta wasn’t used to taking a strong sleeping pill every night, he would have woken up.’ Koumudi was hovering near the door. Feluda turned to him. ‘How come you didn’t wake up, either? Is this how you guard your babu?’ Koumudi hung his head. ‘I’m afraid he’s a heavy sleeper,’ Subir Datta informed us. ‘When he’s asleep, I have to call him at least three times before he wakes up.’ There were footsteps outside. A man of about thirty entered the room. He was slim, wore glasses and had wavy hair. Mr Datta introduced us. He turned out to be Nihar Datta’s secretary, Ranajit Banerjee. ‘Who won?’ Feluda’s unexpected question was meant for Mr Banerjee. He was so taken aback by it that he could only stare. Feluda laughed. ‘I can see the counterfoil of your ticket in your shirt pocket. Besides, your face looks sunburnt, so it’s not really that difficult to guess that you went to watch a major League game!’ Mr Banerjee smiled in return. ‘East Bengal,’ he replied. Mr Datta was also smiling, with a mixture of surprise and appreciation. ‘How long have you been working here?’ ‘Four years.’ ‘Has Mr Nihar Datta ever spoken about the explosion?’ ‘I asked him, but he did not say very much. But sometimes, even without realizing it, he talks of the terrible damage caused by his loss of vision.’ ‘Does he speak of anything else?’

Mr Banerjee thought for a moment. ‘There’s one thing I’ve heard him say. He says that if he’s still alive, it is because a job remains unfinished. I haven’t dared ask him what it is. Perhaps he still hopes to finish his research.’ ‘But obviously he can’t do