Heaven knows when Feluda returned home. When I got up the next morning and came downstairs, it was a quarter past seven. Feluda’s door was shut. Perhaps he was still asleep. After all, he hadn’t slept for two nights in a row. He opened his door at nine. He’d had a shower and shaved. There was not even a trace of tiredness on his face. When he saw me, he simply shook his thumb to indicate that nothing had happened during the night at the cemetery. Lalmohan Babu arrived at half-past nine. ‘See if you like it!’ he said. As promised, he had brought his grandfather’s watch. It was a silver watch, attached to a silver chain. ‘It’s beautiful!’ exclaimed Feluda, taking the watch from Lalmohan Babu. ‘At one time, Cooke- Kelvey as watchmakers were quite well known.’ ‘But it’s not what you’re after, is it?’ Lalmohan Babu asked, a hint of regret in his voice. ‘This watch was made in Calcutta.’ ‘Yes, but do you really want to give it to me?’ ‘With my blessings and my compliments. I am older than you by three and a half years, so you shouldn’t object to my blessings!’ ‘Thank you.’ Feluda wrapped the watch in his handkerchief and put it in his pocket. Then he took a step towards the telephone, but before he could get to it, someone rattled the knocker on our door. I opened it to find Girin Biswas standing outside. He had dropped a hint the day before, but I had not really expected him to turn up— and so soon, at that. He was dressed to go to work, wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase in his hand. ‘Please don’t mind my barging in like this,’ he said, ‘I tried calling your number, but just couldn’t get through. I must have spent at least ten minutes dialling!’ Mr Biswas sounded a bit nervous and agitated. ‘No, why should I mind.’ It’s a miracle if a telephone works, isn’t it? What brings you here?’ Mr Biswas sat on a chair. Lalmohan Babu and I went back to the divan, and Feluda took the settee. ‘I couldn’t decide who to turn to,’ Mr Biswas remarked, wiping his damp forehead with a handkerchief. ‘I haven’t got a lot of faith in the police, frankly speaking. Since you happened to visit us. . .’ ‘What is the problem?’ Mr Biswas cleared his throat. Then he said, ‘My brother was not hit by a tree.’

The next few moments passed in silence. Feluda finally broke it by saying, ‘No? What exactly happened?’ ‘He was struck deliberately. That blow to his head was an attempt to kill him.’ Calmly, Feluda took out his packet of Charminar and offered it to Mr Biswas, who declined politely. Feluda then took one out for himself, and said, ‘But your brother seems convinced that it was a tree.’ ‘That’s because he would rather die than name his son.’ ‘His own son?’ ‘Prashanta. His elder son. The younger one is in England.’ ‘What does Prashanta do?’ ‘It would be easier to tell you what he does not do. He’s involved in every possible illegal activity. He changed over the last three or four years. My sister-in-law—Prashanta’s mother, that is—died in 1970. About a month ago, my brother got fed up with Prashanta’s behaviour and threatened to cut him out of his will. He said he’d leave all his property to his other son, Sushanta.’ ‘I see. Prashanta lives in the same house as you, I take it?’ ‘He could—certainly he has the right to live with us, and there’s even a room meant for his use. But he doesn’t. It’s difficult to tell where he does live. He’s part of a gang. Low-down criminals, each one of them. I think he would have killed his father that day if that terrible storm hadn’t started.’ ‘What does your brother have to say about all this?’ ‘He insists it was a tree. He just doesn’t want to believe that his son might be responsible for his injury. But I have to say this. Prashanta may be my nephew, but if you don’t do something to stop him, he’ll try to kill again.’ ‘If Naren Biswas makes a new will, his son will gain nothing by killing him, surely?’ ‘No, but a financial gain can’t always be the only motive. He might just get furious and lose his head. People kill so often to take revenge and settle scores, don’t they? Besides, my brother won’t change his will. He cannot think straight. You have no idea, Mr Mitter, how far parental love can go. ‘I was at home all this while, but today I have to go out of town for a few days. That’s in connection with my business. So I came to you. Now if you will kindly . . .’ ‘Mr Biswas,’ Feluda flicked the ash from his cigarette into an ashtray, ‘I am very sorry to tell you that I’m already involved in a different case. Certainly your brother should receive some form of protection, but if he continues to insist that he was hit by a tree, no police force on earth can do anything to help him.’ Girin Biswas left. Until his arrival, we had all been feeling quite cheerful as the sun had come out after many grey and wet days. Girin Biswas had managed to spoil our mood. ‘How very strange!’ Feluda remarked when he’d gone, and finally made the phone call he was about to make when Mr Biswas arrived. ‘Hello, Suhrid? This is Felu.’ Suhrid Sengupta and Feluda were classmates in college. ‘Listen. Once I saw a copy of the Presidency College magazine in your house. It was a special issue, to mark its centenary. I think it belonged to your brother. Published possibly in 1955. Do you

think he might still have it? . . . Oh good. Can you leave it with your servant before you go