The second floor was surprisingly quiet. All that we could hear—very faintly—was music, possibly being played on a radio. There was a door where the stairs ended, behind which was a balcony. A certain amount of daylight was coming in through the door. The pattern on the mosaic floor was visible in that light. To our left was a room, but it was empty and dark. Further down, there was another room. The light in it was on and falling across the threshold into the passage outside. A black cat was sitting curled up where the light fell, looking straight at us. Above us, from the third floor, came the sound of a man’s voice. Then I thought I heard someone cough rather chestily.

‘Let’s go home!’ Lalmohan Babu urged. ‘This is the cemetery of Ripon Lane!’

Feluda went towards the second room.

‘Anyone home?’ he called.

For a few seconds, there was silence. Then someone said, ‘Who is it?’

Feluda hesitated before speaking again. The same voice rang out, this time with a hint of impatience. ‘Come in! I can’t get out.’

‘You want to go in? Or should we just leave?’

Feluda ignored Lalmohan Babu’s question and crossed the threshold. He was like a kite. We were only his tail. He went; we followed, zigzagging on the way.

‘Come in!’ the voice commanded.

Chapter 6

The three of us stepped in. It was a medium-sized living room. Opposite the door was an old sofa, torn in three places, its coir stuffing exposed through the gaps. A table with a marble top was placed in front of the sofa. At least, once upon a time it must have looked like marble. To our left was an ancient book case, which contained about fifteen ancient books. On top of this case sat a brass vase with a bunch of dusty plastic flowers in it. It was impossible to guess their colours. A framed picture hung on the wall, but the glass had such a thick layer of dust on it that the picture had become quite indistinct. It might have been the picture of a horse, or it might have been a train.

A Philips radio—possibly older than Feluda—stood on another table next to the sofa. Strangely enough, it still worked, for that faint music was coming from it. Now, a thin, pale hand, with rather prominent veins, reached out and turned a knob to switch it off. The owner of that hand was seated on the sofa, gazing steadily at us. On his lap was a cushion. His left leg was resting on a stool. It was evident from the colour of his skin that one of his ancestors must have been British. The few strands of his hair that had not yet turned grey were blond. It was difficult to see the colour of his eyes, as the bulb that hung from the ceiling was probably no more than twenty-five watts.