Although Dr Munshi’s writing was quite clear and legible, it took Feluda three days to finish reading his manuscript, which ran to 375 pages. But the delay was partly due to the fact that Feluda had to stop every now and then to make notes in his own notebook. On the fourth day, Lalmohan Babu turned up. ‘Have you finished?’ he asked as soon as he stepped in. ‘Yes.’ ‘So what is your view? Is it safe to publish that book as it stands?’ ‘Absolutely. But what I think is not going to make any difference to those men who are convinced they are going to be recognized. I don’t think they’ll stop at anything to prevent its publication.’ ‘What, even murder?’ ‘That’s right. Take A, for example. Arun Sengupta. His ancestors were wealthy zamindars. When he was a young man, Sengupta was a middle-ranking bank officer. But he had inherited his forefathers’ passion for spending money. So he ran up heavy debts, even borrowing from kabuliwallas.’ Kabuliwallas, Feluda had told me once, were men from Kabul, who made a living out of lending money at a very high rate of interest. They had left the country now, but once the sight of kabuliwallas standing at streetcorners, carrying heavy sticks, was pretty common. ‘A time came when the amount he owed became so enormous that Sengupta got absolutely desperate. He stole forty thousand rupees from his bank. However, he did it with great cunning, so that no suspicion could fall on him. A junior officer was blamed, who had to spend a few years in jail.’ ‘I see!’ Jatayu cried. ‘This was followed by great pangs of conscience, then that became a psychological problem, and so he had to see Dr Munshi. But now . . . now this Sengupta is an important man. That can only mean Dr Munshi’s treatment worked beautifully, and Sengupta recovered.’ ‘Correct. Dr Munshi has mentioned the success of his treatment, but nothing else. Nevertheless, it is not difficult to imagine how Sengupta must have changed his lifestyle, and gone from strength to strength to reach the position he is at today. So he is naturally anxious to remove any possibility— however remote—of being exposed and ridiculed.’ ‘I see. What about the other two?’ ‘I cannot tell you who R is because Dr Munshi has said nothing about his real identity. Apparently, he knocked a man down while driving. The man died, but R got away with it simply by bribing a few people. His own conscience did not spare him, however, and so he ended up at Dr Munshi’s clinic. Anyway, his case isn’t so important since he has raised no objections. What is interesting is the case of George Higgins.’ ‘What did Higgins do?’

‘You know he exports wild animals, don’t you? Well, in 1960 a Swedish film director came to Calcutta to make a film in India. He needed a leopard for his film. Someone told him about Higgins, so he met him at his house. It turned out that he did have a leopard, but it was not for export. It was his own, Higgins treated it as his pet. The Swedish director paid a lot of money to hire the animal for a month. He promised to return it, safe and in one piece, within a month. But that did not happen. The leopard was killed by some villagers, as was described in the film script. When the director eventually visited Higgins and told him what had happened, Higgins was so outraged that he lost his head. In a fit of insane rage, he caught the Swedish man by the throat and throttled him to death. When he realized what he had done, fear replaced fury—but even so, he did not fail to think of a plot to save himself. First, he took a knife and made deep wounds all over the body of his victim. Then he found a wild cat among the animals he kept in his collection in his house. He released the cat from its cage, and shot it. It then looked as if the cat had somehow escaped and attacked the film director. Higgins shot the cat, but the director was already dead. This ruse worked, and the police believed his story. However, Higgins began having nightmares. Night after night, he saw himself being dragged to the gallows and hung by the neck. These terrible dreams soon drove him to seek help from Dr Munshi. Munshi helped him recover, and you know the rest.’ ‘Hmm, very interesting. What should we do now?’ ‘I have to do two things. Number one, I must hand over the manuscript to you; and number two, I must ring Arun Sengupta.’ Lalmohan Babu took the proffered packet with a big smile. ‘Are you going to meet Sengupta?’ he asked. ‘Yes, there’s no point in waiting any more. Topshe, go and find his number. Arun Sengupta, 11 Roland Road.’ The phone rang as soon as I picked up the directory. It was Dr Munshi. Arun Sengupta had sent him another letter. Feluda spoke quickly, noting down the details of the letter. Then he put the phone down and read it out to us: I give you seven days. In that time, I wish to see it reported in every newspaper in Calcutta that your diary is not going to be published due to some unavoidable reason. Remember, only seven days. If you do not do as you are told, these warnings will stop and I will get down to direct action. Needless to say, the results will not be happy—at least, not for you. I found Sengupta’s number and dialled it quickly. Luckily, I got through at once. Then I passed the receiver to Feluda, and heard his side of the conversation: ‘Hello, could I speak to Mr Arun Sengupta, please? . . . My name is Pradosh Mitter . . . Yes, that’s right. Can I come and see you?