I woke at 6.30 a.m. the next morning, to find that the rain had stopped and there was not a single cloud in the sky. The sun shone brightly on the world, and behind the range of mountains, now easily visible from our room, stood Kanchenjunga. The view from here was different from that in Darjeeling, but it was still unmistakably the same Kanchenjunga, standing apart from all the other mountains—proud, majestic and beautiful. Feluda had risen before me and already had a bath. ‘Be quick, Topshe. We have lots to do,’ he said. It took me less than half an hour to get ready. By the time we went down for breakfast, it was only a little after 7 a.m. To our surprise, we found Mr Sarkar already seated in the dining hall. ‘Good morning. So you’re an early riser, too,’ Feluda greeted him. Mr Sarkar smiled, but seemed oddly preoccupied, even somewhat nervous. ‘Er . . . did you sleep well?’ we asked. ‘Not too badly. Why, what’s the matter?’ Mr Sarkar glanced around briefly before taking out a crumpled yellow piece of paper from his pocket. Then he handed it over to Feluda and said, ‘What do you make of this?’ Feluda spread it out. There were some strange letters written with black ink. ‘It looks like a Tibetan word. Where did you get it?’ ‘Last night . . . in the . . . I mean, d-dead of night . . . someone threw it into my room.’ ‘What!’ My heart gave a sudden lurch. Mr Sarkar’s room was next to ours. The same stretch of the veranda that ran in front of our room went past his. If the man I saw last night was real, and not something out of a dream, why, he might have—! But I chose not to say anything. ‘I wish I knew what it said,’ added Mr Sarkar. ‘That shouldn’t be a problem, surely? Dozens of people here can read Tibetan. You could go to the Tibetan Institute, if no one else will help you. But why are you assuming this is some sort of a threat? It could simply mean “May you live long”, or “God be with you”, or something like that. Is there a specific reason to think this is a warning or a threat?’ Mr Sarkar gave a little start, then smiled and said, ‘No, no, certainly not. I do nothing but mind my own business. Why should anyone threaten me? But then again, why should anyone send me their good wishes? I mean, purely out of the blue like this?’ Feluda called a waiter and ordered breakfast. ‘Stop worrying. We’re right next to you, aren’t we? We’ll both look after you. Now, have a good breakfast, relax and think of the Lama dance this afternoon.’ Our jeep arrived on time. Just as we were about to get into it, I saw another jeep coming from the direction of the dak bungalow. As it came closer, I could read its number plate. SKM 463, it said. Why did it seem familiar? Oh, of course, this was the new jeep that Mr Shelvankar’s driver was now driving. I caught a glimpse of the blue jacket the driver was wearing, and then, to my utter surprise, I

saw Mr Bose sitting in the passenger’s seat. He stopped his jeep at the sight of ours. ‘I was waiting for information from the army,’ he told us, leaning out. ‘All that rain last night made me wonder if the roads were all right.’ ‘And are they?’ ‘Yes, thank God. If they weren’t, I’d have had to go via Kalimpong.’ ‘Didn’t Mr Shelvankar use the same driver?’ Mr Bose laughed. ‘I can see you’ve started making enquiries already. But yes, you’re right. I chose him deliberately, partly because his jeep is new, and partly because . . . lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice, does it? Anyway, goodbye again!’ He drove off and soon disappeared. We climbed into our own jeep. The driver knew where he was supposed to take us, so we were off without wasting another minute. I glanced up as we approached the dak bungalow to see if I could see Helmut, but there was no one in sight. There was a slope to our left, leading to another street lined by buildings. One of them looked like a school for there was an open square ground in front of it with two tiny goal posts. A little later, we reached a crossing where four roads met. We drove straight ahead and soon came across a large sign that said, ‘North Sikkim Highway’. Feluda had been humming under his breath. Now he broke off and asked the driver, ‘How far has this road gone?’ ‘Up to Chungtham, sir. Then it splits into two—one goes to Lachen, and the other to Lachung.’ I had heard of both these places. They were both at a height of nearly 9,000 feet and reported to be very beautiful. ‘Is it a good road?’ ‘Yes, sir. But it gets damaged sometimes after heavy rain.’ The few buildings that could be seen by the road soon disappeared altogether. We were now well out of the town, making our way through hills. Looking down at the valley below, I could only see maize fields. It seemed as though someone had cut steps in the hillside to plant the maize. It looked most attractive. After driving in silence for another ten kilometres, our driver slowed down suddenly and said, ‘Here’s the spot. This is where the accident took place.’ He parked the jeep on one side and we got out. The place was remarkably quiet. I could hear nothing but the faint chirping of a bird, and the gurgling of a small river in the far distance. On our left was a slope. The hill rose almost in a straight line on our right. It was from the top of this hill that the