oday we were having samosas with our tea instead of daalmut. Lalmohan Babu had brought these from a shop that had recently opened in his neighbourhood. ‘It’s a shop called Let’s Eat, and the samosas they make are absolutely out of this world!’ he had told us a few days ago. Having just demolished the ones he had brought, Feluda and I found ourselves in full agreement. ‘Have you worked out the plot of your next book?’ Feluda asked Jatayu. ‘Yes, sir, including the title: Flummoxed in Florence. My hero, Prakhar Rudra, behaves like Pradosh Mitter in this book.’ ‘Really? He’s a lot sharper, is he? And brighter?’ Feluda laughed. ‘You bet!’ ‘What about his creator? Is he any smarter?’ ‘Well, Felu Babu, all these years of hovering around you was bound to have had some effect.’ ‘Yes, but I shall be convinced only if you can pass a test.’ ‘A test? What kind of a test?’ ‘An observation test. Tell me, do you notice any change in me—or my appearance—since yesterday?’ Lalmohan Babu got up, stepped back and looked carefully at Feluda. After a few seconds of scrutiny, he shook his head. ‘No, I can’t spot any difference at all.’ ‘Then you’ve failed, and so has Prakhar Rudra. I cut my nails, after about a month, only minutes before you arrived. If you look at the floor, you’ll find some bits there, shaped like the crescent moon.’ ‘Oh. Oh, I see what you mean.’ Lalmohan Babu looked a little crestfallen. Then he perked up and said, ‘Very well. Now you tell me if you can spot any changes in me.’ ‘Shall I?’ ‘Yes, do.’ Feluda put his empty cup down on a table and picked up his packet of Charminar. Then he said, ‘Number one, you had used Lux until yesterday. Today I can smell Cinthol. A result of ads on TV?’ ‘Yes, quite right. Anything else?’ ‘You are wearing a new kurta. The top button is open, presumably because you found it difficult to insert it in the buttonhole. Normally all your buttons are in place.’ ‘Correct!’ ‘There’s more.’ ‘What else?’

‘You take garlic every morning, don’t you? I can smell it as soon as you come and sit here. Today I can’t.’ ‘Yes, I know. My servant gets it ready for me, but today he forgot. He’s getting quite careless. I had to have a stern word with him. Garlic is a wonderful substance, Felu Babu. I’ve been taking it regularly since ’86. My whole system—’ Before he could continue this eulogy on garlic, the doorbell rang. I opened it to find a young man of about the same age as Feluda. Feluda stood up. ‘Please come in,’ he said. ‘Are you—?’ ‘Yes, I am Pradosh Mitter.’ The man sat down on a sofa and said, ‘My name is Shankar Munshi. You may have heard of my father, Dr Rajen Munshi.’ ‘The psychiatrist?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I seem to have read something on him recently. Wasn’t there a press report with his photograph?’ ‘Yes, you’re quite right. You see, my father has kept a diary for over forty years. It is now going to be published by Penguin as a book. Father is well known as a psychiatrist, but there is a different area in which he has had quite a lot of experience: shikar. He gave up hunting twenty-five years ago, but he recorded his experiences in his diary. Penguin haven’t yet seen any of it, but have offered to publish it since the diary of a psychiatrist who is also a shikari is bound to be something unique. However, they do know that my father has been writing interesting articles in medical journals, so in his own way he is already an established writer.’ ‘Was it your idea to have that report published in the press?’ ‘No, that was done by the publishers.’ ‘I see.’ ‘Anyway, let me now tell you why I am here. My father has always been very proud of the fact that he has only recorded the unvarnished truth in his diary. In talking about some of his cases, he has mentioned three men, although he has used just the first letter of their names. These are A, G and R. All three are now successful and well known in society. Many years ago, they had all done something terribly wrong, but they managed to evade the law. None of them was caught. Since my father has not used their full names, he is safe and knows he cannot be sued. Still, he rang them as soon as Penguin made their offer, and told them he was going to write about all three cases. A and G were initially not very happy about this; but when Father explained that their true identity was not going to be revealed, they gave their consent, albeit a little reluctantly. R raised no objection at all. ‘Yesterday, as we were sitting down to have lunch, our bearer brought him a letter which had just been delivered. He grew so grave upon reading it that I had to ask him what was wrong. That was when he told me about these three people. Until then, I had had no idea.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Because my father never spoke about his patients or his diary. He . . . he’s a bit peculiar. All he has ever seemed to care about is his work. My mother, myself, our family . . . none of this appears to have any meaning for him. My own mother died when I was three. Then my father remarried, but he and

my stepmother are not very close, either. In fact, my stepmother, too, has always held herself a little aloof from me. I used to be looked after by an old servant when I was a child. So I grew up rather distant from both parents. The good thing was that if I didn’t get my father’s love, I didn’t get any interference from