Inspector Mondol came in the evening—a slim, brisk and efficient man. He had heard of Feluda, as it turned out. ‘You solved the case of that double murder in Kharagpur, didn’t you? In 1978?’ he asked. I remembered the case well. A goonda had been hired to kill one of a pair of identical twins. He didn’t want to take any risks, so he killed both. Feluda’s name became quite well known after he solved this case. ‘Yes,’ Feluda replied. ‘What do you think of the present case?’ ‘It’s difficult to say. The chief suspect has run away, as you know. There is no doubt that he did it, but I am still doubtful about his motive.’ ‘Are you aware that the man walked away with a most valuable object?’ ‘What! Why, no one mentioned this before!’ ‘Well, Mr Niyogi realized it after you had gone. Er . . . I had something to do with this discovery.’ ‘I can believe that. What was it?’ ‘A painting. It was in the studio. Perhaps Bankim Babu caught the man in the act.’ ‘Yes, that would certainly give him a strong motive.’ ‘Have you questioned the journalist?’ ‘Yes, of course. To tell you the truth, I find it distinctly odd that two virtual strangers were staying in the same house as guests. But Robin Babu seemed perfectly straightforward. Besides, we found some fingerprints on that bronze statue. They didn’t match his.’ ‘Did you try and trace Rudrasekhar’s taxi? WBT 4122?’ ‘That’s terrific, you’ve got quite a memory! Yes, we did find the taxi. It took Rudrasekhar from here to a hotel in Sadar Street. But he wasn’t there. We’re making enquiries at other hotels, but so far we haven’t had any luck. If he wants to sell what he stole, he’s most likely to do that in Calcutta, isn’t he?’ ‘No, one can’t be too sure about that.’ ‘Why not? You mean he may leave the city?’ ‘He may even leave the country.’ ‘You don’t say—’ ‘I think there’s a flight to Hong Kong today.’ ‘Hong Kong? It will become a case for Interpol if he goes to Hong Kong. I couldn’t do a thing if he left the country!’ ‘I’m not absolutely sure that that is where he’s gone. But even if you cannot do anything to help, I’ve got to at least try and catch him.’ ‘You will go to Hong Kong?’ Nobo Kumar failed to hide his surprise.

‘I have to make a few enquiries first. Then I shall decide.’ ‘Well, if you do decide to go, let me know. I know a Bengali businessman there. Purnendu Pal. He and I were at college together. He runs a shop for Indian handicrafts. I believe he’s doing quite well.’ ‘All right. I’ll take his address from you.’ ‘I’ll get him to come and meet you at the airport. If necessary, you can even stay at his flat.’ Inspector Mondol rose. ‘Good luck!’ he said. ‘I’ll keep you posted.’ He left. We returned to our room. ‘Good,’ said Lalmohan Babu, ‘we’ll get to use our passports at last!’ Two years ago, an Arab was murdered in Bombay. Feluda had been called in by his friend, Inspector Patwardhan. It had begun to look as though we would have to go to Abu Dhabi for investigations. So we got our passports made and were all set to go, when word came that the culprit had given himself up. Lalmohan Babu had been sorely disappointed. ‘We were so close to going abroad, Tapesh Bhai!’ he had lamented. ‘We’ve been to Kathmandu, I know, and of course Nepal is a foreign country. But to travel somewhere with your passport is . . . something, isn’t it?’ That ‘something’ might happen this time. Looking excited, Lalmohan Babu began to make some observations on the crime rate in Hong Kong, but was interrupted by the sound of a small cough just outside the door. ‘May I come in?’ asked the voice of the journalist, Robin Chowdhury. ‘Yes, please do,’ said Feluda. Robin Babu walked in. Once again, he made me think I had seen him somewhere before. But, for the life of me, I couldn’t remember where it might have been. ‘Have a seat,’ Feluda offered him a chair. ‘I believe you are an investigator?’ he asked as he sat down. ‘Yes, that’s my profession.’ ‘The job of a biographer can sometimes be almost like a detective’s. New pieces of information, like fresh clues, often shed a different light on events.’ ‘Why, did you discover something new about Chandrasekhar?’ ‘You see, I had taken two cases from the studio. Both were filled with letters, legal documents, old bills and catalogues. But, amongst these, I found this press cutting. Look!’ He held out a piece of an old and yellow newspaper. A few lines on it had been highlighted. This is what is said: La moglie Vittoria con il figlio Rajsekhar annunciano con profondo dolore la scomparsa del loro Rudrasekhar Niyogi. Roma, Juli 27, 1955 ‘Why, this is written in Italian!’ Feluda exclaimed. ‘Yes, but I consulted a dictionary and worked out what it meant. What it’s saying is, “Wife Vittoria and son, Rajsekhar, announce with deep regret the loss of Rudrasekhar Niyogi.”’ ‘You mean it’s an announcement of his death?’ Feluda frowned. ‘What! Rudrasekhar dead?’ Lalmohan Babu jumped up in surprise. ‘So it seems. And he died in 1955. This also tells us he had married and had a son called Rajsekhar.’

‘My God! What a villain that other man must be! I did have my suspicions, but never thought we’d find such irrefutable evidence. When did you find this?’ ‘Only this afternoon.’ ‘What a pity! If only you’d found it earlier . . .’ ‘Yes, I know. He did behave strangely, didn’t he? Each time I asked him a question, he either didn’t answer at all, or gave me the wrong answer. So I had actually stopped trying to get him to talk.’ ‘Anyway, please keep