A man had jumped over the wall on our right and fallen over Feluda. He was followed by another. The attaché case Feluda was carrying was no longer in his hand. He had dropped it on the ground and was trying to tackle the first man. I could feel the two men struggling with each other, but could see nothing. The blue case was lying on the road, right in front of me. I stretched my hand to pick it up, but the second man turned around at this moment and knocked me aside. Then he snatched the case and rushed to the entrance of the lane, through which we had just stepped. On my left, Feluda and the other man were still grappling with each other, but I could not figure out what the problem was. Feluda, by this time, should have been able to overpower his opponent.

‘God!’

This exclamation came from our driver. He had heard me scream and rushed out to help. But the man who was making off with the case knocked him down and vanished. I could see the poor driver lying flat on the ground under a streetlight. In the meantime, the first man managed to wriggle free from Feluda’s grasp and climbed over the wall.

Feluda took out his handkerchief and began wiping his hands.

‘That man,’ he observed, ‘had oiled himself rather well. Must have rubbed at least a kilo of mustard oil on his body, making him slippery as an eel. I believe it’s an old trick with thieves.’

True. I had smelt the oil as soon as the two men arrived, but had not been able to guess where it was coming from.

‘Thank God!’

For the life of me, I could not understand why Feluda said this. How could he, even after such a disaster? ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, puzzled. Feluda did not reply at once. He helped the driver, who appeared unhurt, to his feet. Then he said, as the three of us began walking towards the taxi, ‘You don’t think what those scoundrels got away with was Dhameeja’s property, do you?’

‘Wasn’t it?’ I was even more mystified.

‘What they took was the property of Pradosh C. Mitter. And what it contained were three torn vests, five threadbare handkerchiefs, several pieces of rag and a few old newspapers, torn to shreds. I rang telephone enquiries when you went to change. They told me there was no telephone at 4/2 Pretoria Street. But, of course, I didn’t know that even the address was a fake one.’

My heart started pounding once more. Something told me the visit to Simla was now imperative.

Chapter 5