True to his word, Lalmohan Babu returned the manuscript the following day. Feluda thanked him and said, ‘I am afraid we haven’t got time for a cup of tea. I spoke to G; he wants to see us in half an hour.’ The man who opened the door at 90 Ripon Street was bald, but had white hair round his ears. The rather impressive moustache he sported was also totally white. ‘Mr Mitter? I am George Higgins,’ he said. He shook hands with all of us, then took us to his living room. It was a big house with a large compound. I noticed two big cages, one of which contained a tiger, and the other a hyena. I might as well be in a zoo, I thought. ‘You are a detective?’ Mr Higgins asked Feluda when we were all seated. ‘Yes, a private one,’ Feluda replied. ‘I see. So . . . you’ve spoken to Munshi, have you? I must admit he helped me a lot when I was in trouble.’ ‘If that is so, why did you threaten him?’ Higgins was silent for a few moments. Then he said, ‘Well, one reason for that was I had had a bit too much to drink that night. But tell me, is it not natural that I should feel anxious? Do you know what my father was? Just a station master. And look at me! I have done so well in life, simply through my own efforts and hard work. I have a monopoly in this business. I am well-known as the only man who deals with exporting animals. If Munshi’s book is published, and if his readers can recognize me simply from the initial G, can you imagine how badly my business is going to be affected?’ In reply, Feluda had to repeat what he had told Arun Sengupta. There was nothing George Higgins could do legally; and if he decided to break the law in the hope of saving his reputation, things could only get worse. ‘Is that what you really want?’ Feluda asked him, raising his voice a little. ‘Do you think doing something unlawful will enhance your prestige?’ Higgins fell silent once more. Then I heard him mutter: ‘I don’t regret having killed that Swedish swine. If I could get the chance, I’d kill him again. Bahadur . . . my leopard . . . how I loved him! . . . He was only four years old. And that stupid oaf had him killed, for nothing!’ No one said anything in reply. Higgins seemed lost in thought. Finally, he looked up and suddenly slapped the arm of his chair. ‘Very well,’ he said clearly. ‘Go and tell Munshi I don’t give a damn what he does with his diary. I don’t care if I am recognized. Nothing can harm my business. I know it.’ ‘Thank you, Mr Higgins. Thank you very much.’

Feluda had already rung Dr Munshi and told him about Arun Sengupta. Now