When the waiter had taken our order for tea and sandwiches, Feluda took out his notebook again and placed it on the table. Then he opened it and said, ‘The first line continues to mystify me. But I think I’ve worked out the second line. All these letters stand for names of foreign publishers.’

‘Which letters?’ I asked.

‘MM, OU, GAU, SJ and WN are Macmillan, Oxford University Press, George Allen and Unwin, Sidgewick and Jackson, Weidenfeld and Nicholson.’

‘Good heavens!’ Lalmohan Babu exclaimed. ‘How did you manage to rattle off so many foreign names without stumbling even once? God bless your tongue!’

‘It’s obvious that Mr Biswas had either already written, or was going to write to these publishers about a collection of Queen Victoria’s letters. But he needn’t have gone to such trouble. It would have been far simpler to go to the British Council or the National Library and ask them to help. He might have been able to read some of the letters straightaway.’

Feluda put the notebook back in his pocket in order to make room on the table for our sandwiches. Then he lit a Charminar. Lalmohan Babu began humming a western tune, marking time with his fingers. Then he stopped and said, ‘Let’s go out somewhere. I mean, out of town. Every time we do that, you get a case to work on, and I get wonderful plots. But where can we go? It would have to be somewhere rough and wild. Not anywhere on the plains—nowhere that is green, soggy, lazy and quiet. What we need is a ... ‘

Our sandwiches arrived at this moment, so Lalmohan Babu could not finish his sentence. We were all quite hungry. Lalmohan Babu bit into a huge sandwich, chewed three times, and stopped abruptly. Then I saw his eyes widen as he muttered, ‘God be praised! God be praised!’ As a result, little pieces of bread shot out of his mouth and fell on the table.

What had happened was this: Feluda and I were facing the street outside. Lalmohan Babu was looking into the restaurant. At the back, there was a low platform. Clearly, a live band played there in the evenings. On the platform stood a signboard. It was this board that had so amazed Lalmohan Babu. It bore the name of the band. Underneath were the words: Guitar—Chris Godwin.

Feluda snapped his fingers to call a waiter.

‘Do you have live music at night?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘May I speak to your manager?’

It was his intention to get hold of Chris Godwin’s address, and he had already made up a story. When the manager came to our table, Feluda said, ‘There’s a wedding in Mr Mansukhani’s house in Ballygunj Park. They’re looking for a band. I’ve heard so much about the one that plays in your restaurant. Do you think they’ll agree to play at a wedding?’