‘Let’s make a list,’ said Feluda. This was soon ready, and it contained the following:

Two English dailies from Delhi, neatly folded.

One was the Sunday Statesman, the other the

Sunday Hindustan Times.

A half-used tube of Binaca toothpaste. The empty portion had been rolled up.

A green Binaca toothbrush.

A Gillette safety razor.

Three thin Gillette blades in a packet.

An old and used Old Spice shaving cream. It was nearly finished.

A shaving brush.

A nail cutter—pretty old.

Three tablets of Aspro wrapped in a cellophane sheet.

A folded map of Calcutta. It measured 4' x 5' when opened.

A Kodak film container with chopped betel-nuts in it.

A matchbox, brand new.

A Venus red-and-blue pencil.

A white handkerchief, with the letter ‘G’ embroidered in one corner.

A pen-knife, possibly from Moradabad.

A small face-towel.

A rusted old safety-pin.

Three equally rusted paper clips.

A shirt button.

A detective novel—Ellery Queen’s The Door

Between.

Feluda picked up the book and turned a few pages.

‘No, there’s no mention of the owner’s name,’ he said, ‘but he clearly had the habit of marking a page by folding its corner. There are 236 pages in this book. The last sign of folding is at page 212. I assume he finished reading it.’

Feluda now turned his attention to the handkerchief.

‘The first letter of his name or surname must be “G”. No, it must be his first name, that’s far more natural.’

Then he opened the map of Calcutta and spread it on the table.

‘Red marks,’ he said, looking closely at it, ‘someone marked it with a red pencil … hm … one, two, three, four, five … hm … Chowringhee … Park Street … I see. Topshe, get the telephone directory.’

Feluda put the map back into the case. Then he began turning the pages of the telephone directory. ‘P … here we are,’ he said. ‘There are only sixteen Pakrashis listed here. Two of them are doctors, so we can easily leave them out.’

‘Why?’

‘The man who recognized him in the train called him Mr Pakrashi, not Doctor, remember?’

‘Oh yes, that’s right.’

Feluda picked up the telephone and began dialling. Each time he got through, I heard him say, ‘Has Mr Pakrashi returned from Delhi? … Oh, sorry!’

This happened five times in a row. But the sixth number he dialled apparently got him the right man for, this time, he spoke for much longer. Then he said ‘Thanks’ and put the phone down.

‘I think I’ve got him,’ he said to me. ‘N.C. Pakrashi. He answered the phone himself. He returned from Delhi by Kalka Mail the day before yesterday. Everything tallies, except that his luggage didn’t get exchanged.’

‘Then why did you make an appointment with him this evening?’