When we returned to the hotel from the place of the murder (I am not going to call it an accident any more), Feluda told me to wait in the hotel. He had to go out on some work. I didn’t ask him for details for I knew he wouldn’t tell me. On our way back, we had met Helmut near the big crossing. When he heard we were going to Rumtek later in the afternoon, he said he’d like to join us. Nobody had told him about the Lama dance. I wondered where Mr Sarkar was. Had he managed to find out what that Tibetan word meant? I found him in the dining hall, looking morose and depressed. However, my arrival seemed to cheer him up. ‘Where’s your cousin?’ he asked with his usual smile. ‘He’s gone out for a while. He should be back soon.’ ‘Er . . . he’s very strong, isn’t he?’ I looked up in surprise at this question, but Mr Sarkar continued, ‘You see, I am staying on in Gangtok only because he said he’d help me, if need be. Or else I’d have gone back to Darjeeling today.’ ‘Why?’ Mr Sarkar began looking nervous again. Then he slowly took out the same yellow paper from his pocket. ‘I’ve ne-never done anyone any harm. Why should anyone try to threaten me?’ ‘Did you find out what that word means?’ ‘Ye-es. I took it to the Tibetan Institute. And they said . . . they said it means “death”. Giangphung, or something like that. The Tibetan word for death. It’s got me really worried. I am thirty-seven now, you see, and once an astrologer had told me my stars were all going to fall into unfavourable positions after I turned thirty-seven . . .’ This irritated me somewhat. ‘I think you are jumping to conclusions,’ I said a little sternly. ‘All it says is “death”. Does it say you have to die?’ ‘Yes, yes, you’re right. It could be anybody’s death, couldn’t it? Even so . . . I don’t know . . .’ I thought of the figure in red I had seen last night. But obviously it was better not to mention it to Mr Sarkar. He was upset enough as it was. After a few moments of silence, he seemed to pull himself together with an effort. ‘I mustn’t brood,’ he said. ‘Your cousin’s there to help me. The very sight of him inspires confidence. Is he a sportsman?’ ‘He used to play cricket. Now he does yoga.’ ‘I knew it! One doesn’t often get to see a man looking so fit. Anyway, would you like a cup of tea?’ I was feeling quite tired after all that climbing. So I said yes, and Mr Sarkar ordered tea for both of us. Feluda arrived just as the waiter placed two steaming cups before us. Mr Sarkar told him of his problem at once. Feluda looked at the Tibetan word again and asked, ‘Can you figure out why anyone should want to do this to you?’

‘No, sir. I’ve thought a great deal, but I can’t think of a reason at all.’ ‘Very well. If you’re sure there’s no one to bear you a grudge, then there’s nothing to be worried about. I am sure that was dropped into your room by mistake. What is the point in threatening someone in a language he doesn’t know? That warning must have been meant for someone who can read Tibetan. You were not the real target.’ ‘Yes, that makes a lot of sense. Besides, I can rely on you, can’t I, if there’s any trouble?’ ‘Yes, but perhaps there’s something I should tell you here and now. Trouble follows me around wherever I go.’ ‘R-really?’ Feluda went up to our room without another word. I knew he couldn’t stand people who were given to frequent attacks of nerves. If Mr Sarkar wanted his support, he’d have to stop whining all the time. When I returned to our room after finishing my tea, Feluda was writing something in his blue notebook. ‘I knew most people in telegraph offices were illiterate, but this is too much!’ he exclaimed upon seeing me. ‘Why, what happened?’ ‘I sent a telegram to Mr Bose. He will get it as soon as he reaches Bombay. ‘What did you tell him?’ ‘Have reason to suspect Shelvankar’s death not accidental. Am investigating.’ ‘But why are you so cross with the telegraph office?’ ‘That’s another matter. You see, I went to find out if Shelvankar had received any telegrams while he was here. It wasn’t easy to get this information, of course, but in the end they told me there had been two. One was from Mr Bose, saying, “Am arriving fourteenth.”’ ‘And the other?’ ‘Here, read this,’ Feluda offered me his notebook. I saw what was written in it: YOUR SON MAY BE IS A SICK MONSTER. PRITEX. I stared. What on earth did it mean? Were we now going to deal with demons and monsters? ‘Some words have clearly been misspelt. But what could they be?’ Feluda muttered. ‘What is Pritex?’ ‘That probably refers to a private detective agency.’ ‘You mean Shelvankar had appointed a detective to trace his son?’ ‘Quite possibly. But “sick monster”? Dear God!’ ‘This is getting increasingly complicated, Feluda. How many mysteries will you solve all at once?’ ‘I was thinking the same thing. There is no end to the questions. In fact, it might not be a bad idea to write them down.’ He bent over his notebook, pen in hand. ‘Go ahead,’ he invited. ‘Number one—sick monster.’ ‘Yes. Next?’ ‘Who threw that boulder?’ ‘Good.’ ‘Number three—where did that statue disappear?’ ‘Carry on. You’re doing quite well.’

‘Number four—who threw that piece of paper into Mr Sarkar’s room?’ ‘And why? All right, next?’ ‘Number five—whose shirt button did you find at the site of the murder?’ ‘Yes, although that might well have dropped from the shirt of