Although the mist had lifted, the sky was still overcast, and it was raining. I didn’t mind the rain. It was only a faint drizzle, the tiny raindrops breaking up into a thin, powdery haze. One didn’t need an umbrella in rain like this; it was very refreshing. We found a branch of Bata near our hotel. Luckily, they did have the kind of boots we were looking for. When we came out clutching our parcels, Feluda said, ‘Since we don’t yet know our way about this town, we’d better take a taxi.’ ‘Where to?’ ‘The Tibetan Institute. I’ve heard they have a most impressive collection of tankhas, ancient manuscripts and pieces of Tantrik art.’ ‘Are you beginning to get suspicious?’ I asked, though I wasn’t at all sure that Feluda would give me a straight answer. ‘Why? What should I be getting suspicious about?’ ‘That Mr Shelvankar’s death wasn’t really caused by an accident?’ ‘I haven’t found a reason yet to jump to that conclusion.’ ‘But that statue is missing, isn’t it?’ ‘So what? It slipped out of his pocket, and was stolen by someone. That’s all there is to it. Killing is not so simple. Besides, I cannot believe that anyone would commit murder simply for a statue that had been bought for a thousand rupees.’ I said nothing more, but I couldn’t help thinking that if a mystery did grow out of all this, it would be rather fun. A row of jeeps stood by the roadside. Feluda approached one of the Nepali drivers and said, ‘The Tibetan Institute. Do you know the way?’ ‘Yes sir, I do.’ We got into the jeep, both choosing to sit in the front with the driver. He took out a woollen scarf from his pocket, wrapped it round his neck and turned the jeep around. Then we set off on the same road which had brought us into town. Only this time, we were going in the opposite direction. Feluda began talking to the driver. ‘Have you heard about the accident that happened recently?’ ‘Yes, everyone in Gangtok has.’ ‘The driver of that jeep survived, didn’t he?’ ‘Yes, he’s very lucky. Last year there had been a similar accident: The driver got killed, not the passenger.’ ‘Do you happen to know this driver?’ ‘Of course. Everyone knows everyone in Gangtok.’

‘What is he doing now?’ ‘Driving another taxi. SKM 463. It’s a new taxi.’ ‘Have you seen the accident spot?’ ‘Yes, it’s on the North Sikkim Highway. Three kilometres from here.’ ‘Could you take us there tomorrow.’ ‘Yes, sure. Why not?’ ‘Well then, come to the Snow View Hotel at 8 a.m. We’ll be waiting for you.’ ‘Very well, sir.’ A road rose straight through a forest to stop before the Tibetan Institute. The driver told us that orchids grew in this forest, but we didn’t have the time to stop and look for them. Our jeep stopped outside the front door of the Institute. It was a large two-storey building with strange Tibetan patterns on its walls. It was so quiet that I thought perhaps the place was closed, but then we discovered that the front door was open. We stepped into a big hall. Tankhas hung on the walls. The floor was lined with huge glass cases filled with objects of art. As we stood debating where to go next, a Tibetan gentleman, clad in a loose Sikkimese dress, came forward to meet us. ‘Could we see the curator, please?’ Feluda asked politely. ‘No, I’m afraid he is away on sick leave today. I am his assistant. How may I help you?’ ‘Well, actually, I need some information on a certain Tibetan statue. I do not know what it’s called, but it has nine heads and thirty-four arms. Could it be a Tibetan god?’ The gentleman smiled. ‘Yes, yes, you mean Yamantak. Tibet is full of strange gods. We have a statue of Yamantak here. Come with me, I’ll show it to you. Someone brought a beautiful specimen a few days ago—it’s the best I’ve ever seen—but unfortunately, that gentleman died.’ ‘Oh, did he?’ Feluda feigned total surprise. We followed the assistant curator and stopped before a tall showcase. He brought out a small statue from it. I gasped in horror. Good heavens, was this a god or a monster? Each of its nine faces wore a most vicious expression. The assistant curator then turned it in his hand and showed us a small hole at the base of the statue. It was customary, he said, to roll a piece of paper with a prayer written on it and insert it through that little hole. It was called the ‘sacred intestine’! He put the statue back in the case and turned to us once more. ‘That other statue of Yamantak I was talking about was only three inches long. But its workmanship was absolutely exquisite. It was made of gold, and the eyes were two tiny rubies. None of us had ever seen anything like it before, not even our curator. And he’s been all over Tibet, met the Dalai Lama—why, he’s even drunk tea with the Dalai Lama, out of a human skull!’ ‘Would a statue like that be valuable? I mean, if it was made of gold—?’ The assistant curator smiled again. ‘I know what you mean. This man bought it for a thousand rupees. Its real value may well be in excess of ten thousand.’ We were then taken on a little tour down the hall, and the assistant curator told us in great detail about some of the other exhibits. Feluda listened politely, but all I could think of was Mr Shelvankar’s death. Surely ten thousand rupees was enough to tempt someone to kill? But then, I told myself firmly,

Mr Shelvankar had not been stabbed or strangled or poisoned. He had died simply because a falling rock had hit his jeep. It had to be an accident. As we were leaving, our guide