The chowkidar’s words appeared to disappoint Helmut the most. He sat down on the grass outside, placing his camera beside him. Mr Bose said, ‘Well, there’s nothing we can do immediately, can we? Let’s have lunch. I’m starving.’ We went into the bungalow carrying our luggage. It was obvious that the bungalow had been built several decades ago. The wooden floor and ceiling, the wide verandas with wooden railings and old- fashioned furniture all bore evidence of an era gone by. The view from the veranda was breathtaking. If the sky wasn’t cloudy, we would have been able to see Kanchenjunga, which was twenty-two miles away. There was no noise anywhere except the chirping of birds. We crossed the veranda and went into the dining hall. Mr Bose found an easy chair and took it. He said to Feluda, ‘I wasn’t too sure about Vaidya before, although you did tell me you had your suspicions. But now I’m convinced he’s our man. SS should never have shown him such a valuable object as that statue.’ Helmut had risen to his feet, but hadn’t joined us. I could see him pacing in the veranda outside. Mr Sarkar went inside, possibly to look for a bathroom. Feluda began to inspect the other rooms in the bungalow. I sat quietly in the dining hall, feeling most depressed. Was our journey really going to turn out to be a complete waste of time? There were two doors on one side, leading to two bedrooms. Feluda came out of one of these with a walking-stick in his hand. ‘Dr Vaidya most certainly visited this place,’ Feluda said, ‘and he left this stick to prove it. How very strange!’ Feluda’s voice sounded different. I looked up quickly, but said nothing. Mr Sarkar returned, wiping his face with a handkerchief. ‘What a weird place!’ he exclaimed, taking the chair next to mine, yawning noisily. Feluda did not sit down. He stood before the fireplace, tapping the stick softly on the ground. His mouth was set in a grim line. ‘Mr Sarkar!’ called Mr Bose. ‘Where are those packed lunches your hotel gave you? Let’s eat.’ ‘No!’ said Feluda, his voice sounding cold and remote. ‘This is not the time to eat.’ Mr Sarkar had started to rise. He flopped back in his chair at Feluda’s words. Mr Bose and I both looked at him in surprise. But Feluda’s face remained without expression. Then he sat down, lit a Charminar and inhaled deeply. ‘Mr Bose,’ he said conversationally, ‘you know someone in Ghatshila, you said. Isn’t that where you were before you caught a flight from Calcutta?’ ‘Yes. A nephew of mine got married.’ ‘You are a Hindu, aren’t you, Mr Bose?’ ‘Why? What do you mean?’ ‘You heard me. What are you? A Hindu, or a Muslim, or a Christian, or what?’

‘How does that—?’ ‘Just tell me.’ ‘I’m a Hindu, of course.’ ‘Hm.’ Feluda blew out two smoke rings. One of them wafted towards Mr Bose,