Five minutes passed, but there was no sign of Tulsi Babu. Mr Bhattacharya decided to get to work. ‘Please place your hands—palm downward—on the table. Your little fingers should touch those of your neighbour’s.’ We placed our hands as instructed. A tapping noise started at once, caused by Lalmohan Babu’s trembling fingers. He might have been playing a tabla. I saw him grit his teeth to steady his hands. Mr Bhattacharya’s eyes were closed, but his lips moved. He was reciting a Sanskrit shloka. A minute later, he stopped. There was a deathly silence in the room. The lamp flickered. Around its flame three insects hovered. Our shadows, large and trembling, fell on the walls, nearly touching the ceiling. I gave Feluda a sidelong glance. His jaw was set, and he was staring steadily at Mr Bhattacharya with a totally expressionless face. Mr Bhattacharya himself was sitting still as a statue. He had picked up the pencil, which was now poised over the blank sheet of paper. Then his lips started to tremble. Beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead. Lalmohan Babu began playing the tabla again, perfectly involuntarily. I could see why. The atmosphere in the room was decidedly eerie. My heart beat as fast as Lalmohan Babu’s fingers shook. ‘Jeevanlal . . . Jeevanlal . . . Jeevanlal!’ Mr Bhattacharya called softly. His lips barely moved. ‘Are you there? Have you come?’ This time, to our amazement, the questions were spoken by a voice behind us. It was Nityanand. Now I realized what his role was. He spoke on behalf of his uncle. Perhaps Mr Bhattacharya found it impossible to speak at a time like this. ‘Yes,’ said Feluda. The word had been scribbled on the pad by Mr Bhattacharya. His eyes were still closed. I watched his hands carefully. ‘Where are you?’ asked Nityanand. ‘Here, very close,’ wrote Mr Bhattacharya. Feluda read the words out. ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions. Can you answer them?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Who stole the money from your father’s chest?’ ‘I did.’ ‘Did you see your murderer?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Did you recognize him?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Who was it?’ ‘My father.’

But we didn’t get to hear when the murder was committed, for Feluda stood up abruptly and said, ‘That’ll do.’ Then he turned to me and said, ‘Topshe, go and get that lantern from the passage outside. I can hardly see anything.’ Considerably startled, I got up and fetched the lantern. Feluda picked up the piece of paper Mr Bhattacharya had scribbled on, ran his eyes over the few words written and said, ‘Mr Bhattacharya, your spirit may have left the earth, but it hasn’t yet learnt the truth. There are discrepancies in his answers.’ Mr Bhattacharya glared at Feluda, looking as if he wanted to reduce him to a handful of dust, but Feluda remained quite unmoved. ‘For instance,’ he continued, ‘he is being asked who opened the chest and took the money. He says, “I did”, meaning Jeevanlal. But that chest was empty, Mr Bhattacharya. There was no money in it.’ As if by magic, the fury faded from Mr Bhattacharya’s face. He began to look rather uncertain. Feluda went on, ‘I can say this with some confidence because it was not Jeevanlal Mallik who opened that chest, but Pradosh Chander Mitter. Jeevanlal helped me do it by opening the front door for me in the middle of the night and telling me where the key was kept. He also helped me to tie up his father and Bholanath Babu. Anyway, instead of any money, what we found in the chest was this.’ He slipped a hand into his pocket and brought out another piece of paper. ‘The old Mr Mallik had refused to show it to me. But I needed it urgently as I had serious doubts about Mriganka Bhattacharya’s intentions. My suspicions were aroused the minute I met him. He pretended to have guessed my name and profession by some supernatural means. The truth is that Tulsi Babu had already told him who I was and what I did. Am I right, Tulsi Babu?’ I realized with a start that Tulsi Babu had joined us, though I had not seen him arrive. He looked profoundly embarrassed and tried to explain: ‘Y-yes, I am afraid . . . you see . . . I wanted you to get a good impression, so I . . .’ Feluda raised a hand to stop him. ‘I don’t blame you, Tulsi Babu. You don’t pretend to be something you are not. But this man does. Anyway, when I realized Mr Bhattacharya was simply putting on an act to impress me, I was determined to get hold of the paper that Shyamlal Mallik wanted no one to see. There were a few doubts in my mind about Shyamlal, too, which I thought this piece of paper would help clarify.’ Mr Bhattacharya was now sweating profusely. Feluda held the paper closer to the lamp and said, ‘Durlabh Singh’s departed soul was supposed to have answered some questions. The questions were spoken, but it isn’t difficult to guess what was asked. The written answers are good indicators. I shall now read out to you all the questions and the answers given. If I get any of it wrong, I hope Mr Bhattacharya will correct me.’ Mr Bhattacharya was breathing so fast that the flame flickered strongly. Feluda began reading, ‘The first question was: “Who is my enemy?” Answer: “He is in your house.” “Does he want me dead?” “No.” “Then what does he want?” “Money.” “How can I save my money from him?” “Don’t keep it in your chest.” “Where should I kept it?” “Bury it under the ground.” Where?” “In your garden.” “Where in the garden?” “At the far end—under the last mango tree—by the gap in the wall.”’ Feluda put the paper back into his pocket. ‘The traces of mud on his feet and the mosquito bites on his face had suggested that