owhere in this country,’ said Lalmohan Babu—alias Jatayu—in an admiring tone, ‘will you find a market like our New Market!’ Feluda and I were in full agreement. Some time ago, there had been talk of pulling it down to build a modern multi-storey supermarket in its place. This had seriously upset Feluda. ‘Don’t they realize,’ I had heard him fume, ‘that if New Market is destroyed, it would mean the destruction of the very spirit of Calcutta? If they do go ahead, I hope the citizens will not hesitate to take to the streets in protest!’ Luckily, the proposal was dropped. We were now standing opposite New Market, having just seen Ape and Superape at the Globe. Lalmohan Babu needed batteries for his torch and a refill for his ball-point pen. Feluda wanted a packet of daalmut from Kalimuddi’s shop. Besides, Lalmohan Babu wanted to go around the whole market to inspect its nooks and crannies. ‘Only yesterday, you see, I got the most wonderful idea for a ghost story that can take place right here in the market!’ he told me. We stepped into the traffic to cross the road, making our way carefully through endless private cars and taxis. Lalmohan Babu began to give me the details of his plot. ‘There is this man, you see, a retired judge. One day, he comes to this market in the evening and discovers, a few hours later, that he can’t get out! All shops are closed, all lights have been switched off, and he just can’t find an exit. Every dark corridor is empty, except for an old antiques shop in a small, narrow alley. There is only a flickering light in this shop. This man runs towards the shop, in the hope of finding help. Just as he reaches it, an arm comes out of the darkness. It is the arm of a skeleton, a dagger clutched in its hand, dripping with blood. It is the skeleton of a murderer, on whom the judge had once passed a death sentence. He has come back to take his revenge. The judge starts running blindly through the dark corridors, but it’s no use. No matter how fast he runs or where he goes, he can still see the skeleton’s arm, getting closer. . . and closer.’ Not bad, I thought quietly to myself; an idea like this certainly had possibilities, although I was sure he’d have to appeal to Feluda for help, if only to produce a plausible explanation for the retired judge getting locked in. We had, by now, come into the market. In front of us was a shop selling electrical goods. Lalmohan Babu could buy his batteries there and a refill for his pen from the shop opposite. The owner of Dey Electricals knew Feluda. He greeted us with a smile. We were followed almost immediately by another man—about forty years of age, medium height, a receding hairline, wearing a white bush-shirt and black trousers. In his hand