Back at the hotel I nod off over Amitava’s novel and fall asleep without turning out the light. At some time in the night I am shaken out of sleep by the slap of raindrops on the windowpanes. The sound and smell of mountain rain are different. Different, and rather sharp for urban sense organs. My mobile says it’s 4 in the morning. The rain is pelting down. Switching off the light and returning to bed, I notice the streetlight entering through the window and sliding along the sheets. I have to get up again, and as I’m about to draw the curtains, I stop abruptly.
A shadowy figure in a raincoat is standing beneath the lamppost across the road, looking up at my window. Since the source of light is behind the figure, I can’t see the face. I remain rooted to the spot. We’re staring at each other. I spotted a similar shadow on my way to Chowdhury Villa, watching me in much the same way. Is it the same person? I can tell my feet are pulling at me like a railway engine. To open the door, take the stairs down to the lounge, and cross the road…
Source: Murder mystery: Did a bestselling crime novelist really kill his poet friend forty-four years ago?
