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 it himself. Maybe he thinks he can get someone else to work for him. Could that be it?’ ‘Perhaps.’ ‘What are your working hours?’ ‘I come at nine, and leave at six. Today, I wanted to leave early to see the game. Mr Datta raised no objection. But if I leave the house during the day, I normally drop by in the evening. In case he has . . .’ ‘Where is the key to that safe kept?’ Feluda interrupted him. ‘Under that pillow.’ Feluda lifted the pillow and picked up a key ring. Five keys were hanging from it. He chose the right one and opened the safe. ‘Where’s the money?’ ‘In that drawer,’ Mr Banerjee pointed at a drawer. Feluda pulled it open. ‘Wh-wh-what!’ Mr Banerjee gasped in horror. Even in the dim candlelight, I could see that he had gone visibly pale. Inside the drawer was a rolled up parchment, which turned out to be a horoscope; and in an old wooden Kashmiri box, there were some old letters. Nothing else. ‘How . . . how is it possible?’ Mr Banerjee could barely whisper. ‘Three bundles of hundred-rupee notes . . . about thirty-three thousand rupees . . .’ ‘The research papers? Were they in this other drawer?’ Mr Banerjee nodded. Feluda opened it. The second drawer was completely empty. Tap, tap, tap, tap! Nihar Datta was coming down the stairs. ‘There was a long envelope . . . with a seal from the University of Michigan . . . it had all the notes . . .!’ Mr Banerjee’s throat had clearly gone quite dry. ‘Was the money here this morning? And the research papers?’ ‘Yes, I saw it myself,’ Subir Datta told us. ‘The numbers on all the hundred-rupee notes have been noted down. My brother has always insisted on that.’ Feluda’s face looked grim. ‘It means that the money and the papers were stolen in the last fifteen minutes—soon after the power cut began, when we were sitting in your living room.’ Nihar Datta entered the room. It was clear from his face that he had heard everything. We stepped out of his way as he went and sat on his easy chair. ‘Just imagine!’ he said with a sigh. ‘The thief walked away with his loot from under the detective’s nose!’ We left him and went out to the corridor. ‘Is there another staircase anywhere, apart from the one we used?’ Feluda asked Subir Datta. ‘Yes. There’s a staircase at the back, which the cleaners use.’ ‘Do you have a power cut at the same time every day?’ ‘Over the last ten days or so, yes, we’ve been having a power cut every evening, from six to ten o’clock. Some people have started to set their watch by it!’

I tried to think if a similar thing had happened before in Feluda’s career as a detective. Not a single instance came to mind. ‘Has either of your tenants returned?’ Feluda asked as we