Our car passed through the heavy traffic in Shibpur and turned onto the national highway. It felt like going into a new world. When I say ‘our’ car, I really mean Jatayu’s car. Lalmohan Ganguli—alias Jatayu—the very successful writer of blood-curdling thrillers, owned this green Ambassador. But he was perfectly happy to let us use it whenever we wanted. ‘My car, sir,’ he had once said to Feluda, ‘is equal to yours. What I mean is, it’s your right—that is, it is a privilege for me to offer you the use of my car, considering all you’ve done for me.’ ‘What have I done for you, Lalmohan Babu?’ ‘Why, you’ve—you’ve opened such a lot of new doors for me! And it’s brought me renewed vigour and a totally different outlook. Just think of the many places I’ve now travelled to—Delhi, Bombay, Jaisalmer, Benaras, Simla, Nepal. Could I have done it without your help? No, sir! I had only heard of the saying “Travel broadens the mind”. Now I know what it means.’ This time, however, we were not going to travel very far. Mecheda was only a few miles from Calcutta. But according to Lalmohan Babu, living in Calcutta was no different from living in the black hole. So if one could get away even for a single day, it gave one a new lease of life. Why, one might wonder, were we going to Mecheda, of all places? The reason was simple. We were going there to meet the numerologist, Bhabesh Chandra Bhattacharya. Lalmohan Babu had read about him—and his powers—nearly three months ago. Now he was determined to meet him in person. Mr Bhattacharya, apparently, could use his knowledge of numbers to make amazing and accurate predictions. Hundreds of people were queueing up outside his house in Mecheda to seek his advice. Lalmohan Babu wanted to join the queue, for his last book had not sold quite as well as he had hoped. ‘There must have been something wrong with the title of the novel,’ he mused. ‘I don’t think so, Lalmohan Babu,’ Feluda told him. ‘All that happened was that you got carried away. Your hero gets hit by seven bullets, but even after that he’s alive and well. Now, that is a bit hard to swallow, isn’t it? I mean, even for the readers of your adventure series?’ ‘What are you saying, Felu Babu?’ Jatayu sounded indignant. ‘My hero Prakhar Rudra isn’t an ordinary man, and my readers know it. He’s a super-super-super man of extraordinary—’ ‘All right, all right, we believe you!’ This time, Feluda had declared himself perfectly happy with the plot of his latest novel. But Lalmohan Babu was not going to take any risks. ‘I must consult this numerologist,’ he said. Hence our visit to Mecheda. We had left Calcutta at 7.30 this morning and hoped to reach Mecheda by half-past nine. By 1.30 p.m., we planned to be back home.

There wasn’t much traffic on the highway, and we drove at 80 km per hour. Soon, we passed Kolaghat. Mecheda wasn’t far from here. A couple of minutes later, we saw a strange car by the side of the road, its owner standing helplessly by its side. Our arrival made him jump and wave madly. Our car screeched to a halt. ‘A most unfortunate business,’ the gentleman said, wiping his face with a large handkerchief. ‘One of the tyre’s gone, but I think I left the jack in my other car.’ ‘Don’t worry,’ Lalmohan Babu reassured him, ‘my driver will sort things out. Have a look, Haripada.’ Haripada took out a jack and passed it to the other man, who began working on the flat tyre immediately. ‘How old is your car?’ Feluda asked. ‘It’s a 1936 model. Armstrong Siddeley.’ ‘Does it often give you trouble on a long run?’ ‘No, never. I join the vintage car rally every year. Er . . . are you going far?’ ‘Only up to Mecheda. We don’t expect to spend more than half an hour there.’ ‘Well then, why don’t you come to my house from there? Turn left as you get out of Mecheda. I live just eight kilometres away, in Baikunthapur.’ ‘Baikunthapur?’ ‘Yes, that’s where my parents live in our ancestral home. I live in Calcutta, but I’m visiting them at the moment. Our house is two hundred years old—I’m sure you’ll enjoy a short visit. You could have lunch with us, and return to Calcutta in the evening. Do say yes. I’d like to show you how very grateful I am for your help.’ Feluda frowned. ‘Baikunthapur . . . I have seen that name recently somewhere.’ ‘Yes, you may have read Bhudev Singh’s article in the Illustrated Weekly.’ ‘Oh, yes. Now I remember. It was published about six weeks ago.’ ‘Yes, although I must confess I haven’t read the article myself. Someone told me about it.’ ‘It’s about someone from the Niyogi family in Baikunthapur. He was an artist, who went to Rome.’ ‘My great-uncle, Chandrasekhar,’ the gentleman smiled. ‘I am a Niyogi, too. My name is Nobo Kumar.’ ‘I see. I am Pradosh Mitter, and this is Lalmohan Ganguli. Here’s my cousin Tapesh.’ Nobo Kumar raised his eyebrows. ‘Pradosh Mitter? The investigator?’ he asked. ‘Yes.’ ‘Oh, then you’ve got to come to our house! Why, you’re a famous man! Besides, to tell you the truth, I had already thought of contacting you.’ ‘Why?’ ‘There’s been a murder. You may laugh at this, for the victim was not a man but a dog.’ ‘What! When did this happen?’ ‘Last Tuesday. It was a fox terrier. My father was very fond of it.’ ‘Why do you say it was a murder?’ ‘A servant took the dog out for a walk. Neither of them returned. The dog’s body was found in the woods. It looked as though it was poisoned. Biscuit crumbs lay everywhere.’

‘How very strange! Have you any idea who—?’ ‘No. The dog was eleven years old. It wouldn’t have