‘I may as well give up. I do not deserve to be called a sleuth,’ said Feluda. I had never heard him talk like this. But then, we had never been in a situation like this before. A whole day had passed after Shashi Babu’s death. Durga Puja had begun the day before. We had just finished breakfast and were sitting in our room. Mr Tiwari had rung a few minutes earlier to say that Shashi Babu’s son, Nitai, had been arrested. He had never got on well with his father. In fact, Shashi Babu had threatened to hand him over to the police on many occasions. So Nitai might have had a motive for killing his father, although he had denied it. He had apparently been watching a film at the time of the murder. The police did find a torn ticket in his pocket. The knife with which Shashi Babu was stabbed had not been found. According to what Vikas Sinha had told the police, Shashi Babu had finished painting the eyes of the goddess and put the last finishing touches by 6 p.m. that evening. Then he had gone straight to Vikas Babu to get some more medicine as his temperature had risen again. Vikas Babu gave him a fresh dose of homoeopathic medicine, and Shashi Babu left for his home soon afterwards. Someone stabbed him on the way. ‘It is perhaps a good thing,’ Feluda continued to speak, more to himself than the two of us, ‘to fall flat on my face occasionally. At least it stops me from getting arrogant, and reminds me that I am no different from most men . . . Hey, Lalmohan Babu, you’ll come with us to the play, won’t you? I believe their standard of acting is pretty high.’ ‘Yes, of course, that is if you decide . . .’ ‘And what shall we do tomorrow? See a film? Why not? Let’s go and see Tarzan. And a Hindi film after that. I’ll also take you to Durga Bari. You’ll find lots of monkeys there. Each one of them has more intelligence than your Felu Mitter.’ In the end, we did go and see Kabuliwala at the Bengali Club, and discovered that Feluda was right. It was a very good performance. The next day was Mahashtami, the third day of Durga Puja. We went out to visit a few places where Puja was being held, including Mr Ghoshal’s house. He invited us to lunch, but Feluda declined. We ordered lunch in the hotel. Feluda normally had a light meal but, to my surprise, today he had a huge plate of rice and curry and went to sleep straight after. I realized later that this was only the lull before a storm. But, at this precise moment, it broke my heart to see Feluda so depressed. In the evening, we went to see Tarzan, the Ape Man. But Feluda, for some reason, left the hall virtually as soon as the film began. All he got to see was the name Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, followed by the title of the film. He did not explain where he was going, but shot up from his chair and left immediately, with a brief: ‘You stay here and watch the film. I’ve got some work to do.’

Lalmohan Babu and I did stay on till the end of the film, but neither of us could enjoy it properly. Where had Feluda gone? And why? We returned to the hotel at a quarter past eight, to find Feluda deeply engrossed in making new entries in his notebook. ‘You go ahead and have your dinner,’ he said as we appeared. ‘I’ve ordered a cup of coffee for myself.’ ‘Won’t you eat anything at all?’ ‘No, I’m not hungry. Besides, I’m expecting an urgent call from Tiwari.’ The cook had produced a special meal today because of puja, but I had to rush through it. This time, I was determined to hear myself what Feluda said to Tiwari. His call came half an hour after we had finished eating. This is what Feluda said to him: ‘Yes, Mr Tiwari? Yes, very good . . . no, no, don’t do anything yet, wait till the last moment . . . Yes, that’s why there was such confusion at first . . . And did you find out about the house? Yes, all right. . . See you tomorrow. . . . Good night.’ Lalmohan Babu had gone to our room straight after dinner. ‘I must get some writing done,’ he had told me on our way back from the cinema. ‘Your cousin’s behaviour has got me all confused and mixed up. I must think carefully and chalk out my plot.’ When Feluda and I returned to the room, he was sitting with a writing pad and a pen in his hand, looking a bit put out. Feluda did not seem to notice him at all. He lit a Charminar and began pacing the floor. Lalmohan Babu pushed the writing pad away. ‘This,’ he declared, ‘is most unfair. I cannot concentrate on my own writing; nor can I make out what’s going on. Why are you being so secretive? Why can’t you tell us if you’re on to something? After all, we’re not entirely brainless, are we? Why don’t you give us a chance?’ ‘All right,’ said Feluda, blowing out a smoke ring, ‘I’ll give you five clues.’ ‘Go ahead.’ ‘The king of Africa, Shashi Babu’s “lie”, the mouth of a shark, one to ten, and Maganlal’s barge.’ Lalmohan Babu stared at him for a few seconds, then let out a long sigh, shaking his head slowly. ‘Promise me one thing,’ Feluda said seriously. ‘From tomorrow, you are not going to ask me any more questions.’ ‘I wouldn’t dare. I’ve learnt my lesson, thank you.’ ‘I may have to go out from time to time,’ Feluda went on, ‘but not with you. You are free to go where you like, there’s