‘Well, that’s one down. Let’s see how long the second one takes. He should be here any minute now.’ Mr Tarafdar said. The doorbell rang in a couple of minutes. A man in a dark suit was ushered in. ‘Good morning,’ greeted Mr Tarafdar, rising. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch your name on the telephone. You must be . . . ?’ ‘Tiwari. Devkinandan Tiwari.’ ‘I see. Please have a seat.’ ‘Thank you. Have you heard of T H Syndicate?’ Lalmohan Babu and Mr Tarafdar looked at each other in silence. Clearly, they had not. Feluda was obliged to open his mouth. ‘Your business has something to do with imports and exports, right? You have an office in Pollock Street?” ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Mr Tiwari said, looking a little suspiciously at Feluda. ‘These three people are my friends. I hope you won’t mind talking to me in their presence?’ Mr Tarafdar asked. ‘Oh no, not in the least. All I want to do, Mr Tarafdar, is ask that young chap a question. If he can give me the correct answer, I shall be eternally grateful.’ Nayan was brought back into the room. Mr Tarafdar laid a hand on his back and said kindly, ‘I’m sorry, Nayan, but you have to answer another question. All right?’ Nayan nodded. Mr Tarafdar turned to Mr Tiwari. ‘Go ahead, sir. But please remember the answer to your question must be in numbers.’ ‘Yes, I know. That is precisely why I’ve come.’ Mr Tiwari fixed his eyes on Nayan. ‘Can you tell me the combination of my chest?’ Nayan stared back, looking profoundly puzzled. ‘Listen, Jyotishka,’ said Feluda quickly, before anyone else could speak, ‘perhaps you don’t understand what Mr Tiwari means by a combination. Let me explain. You see, some chests and cupboards don’t have ordinary locks and keys. What they have is a disc attached to the lid or on the door that can be rotated. An arrow is marked on the disc, and around it are written numbers from one to zero. A combination is a series of special numbers meant for a particular chest or a cupboard. If you move the disc and bring the arrow to rest against the right numbers, the chest opens automatically.’ ‘Oh, I see,’ Nayan said, nodding vigorously. Lalmohan Babu suddenly asked a pertinent question. ‘How come you don’t know the combination of your own chest?’ ‘I knew it . . . in fact, I had known it and used it to open my chest a million times over the last twenty-three years. But,’ Mr Tiwari shook his head regretfully, ‘I am getting old, Mr Tarafdar. My

memory is no longer what it used to be. For the life of me, I cannot remember the right numbers for that combination. I had written it down in an old diary and I have spent the last four days looking for it everywhere, but I couldn’t find it. It’s gone . . . vanished.’ ‘Didn’t you ever