Dr Munshi’s brother-in-law arrived almost instantly. From the way he kept mopping his face, it seemed as if he was feeling nervous for some reason. ‘Please sit down,’ Feluda invited. He took a chair. ‘Your name is Chandranath, I gather. What is your surname?’ ‘Basu.’ ‘You’ve been living here for about fifteen years, is that correct?’ ‘Yes, but how did you . . . ?’ ‘I have read Dr Munshi’s diary. I know a few things about you, but would like you to confirm everything, if you don’t mind.’ Mr Basu wiped his face again. ‘Did Dr Munshi actually ask you to come and live here?’ ‘No. It was my sister’s idea.’ ‘Did Dr Munshi agree readily?’ ‘No.’ ‘So how . . .?’ ‘He agreed . . . only when my sister . . . requested him repeatedly.’ ‘You haven’t got a job, have you?’ ‘No.’ ‘Are you given an allowance every month?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘How much?’ ‘Five hundred.’ ‘Is that sufficient?’ Mr Basu averted his gaze and looked down at the carpet without making a reply. It was obvious that five hundred rupees a month was inadequate for him. ‘You went to college, didn’t you? You studied up to the intermediate year, I think?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘How were you as a student? Average? Or worse than that?’ Mr Basu remained silent. ‘You failed in your first year at college, didn’t you? Was that the reason why you never got a job?’ Mr Basu nodded, still looking at the floor. ‘Do you do any work in this house?’ ‘Work? Well yes, I help with the shopping . . . I go to the chemist, if need be . . . things like that.’ ‘I see. Is your bedroom on the first floor?’

‘Yes.’ ‘Where exactly is it? How far from Dr Munshi’s room?’ ‘Quite close.’ ‘Close? You mean your room is right next to his?’ ‘Ye-es.’ ‘What time do you usually go to bed?’ ‘Around ten-thirty.’ ‘And when do you get up?’ ‘Six o’clock.’ ‘Do you have anything to say about this murder?’ ‘No, no. Nothing at all.’ ‘Very well. You may go now, but please send Radhakanta Mallik. I have some questions for him as well.’ Radhakanta Mallik arrived in a few moments, threw himself down on a sofa and began shaking his head and waving his hands rather violently. ‘I know nothing about this murder . . . absolutely nothing . . . not a thing! . . .’ ‘Please calm down. Have I said that you’re suspected of knowing anything?’ Feluda asked. ‘No, but you will say it eventually. I am not a fool. I know you detectives. I hate this whole idea of having to answer endless questions. I am going to tell you all I know. Just hear me out. When I first arrived here with an ailment, I did not know what it was called. Dr Munshi told me it was persecution mania. I had started to suspect everyone around me of being my enemy, and I mean everyone—all family members, neighbours, colleagues, the lot. It seemed as if they were all lying in wait. Each of them would attack me, if only they got the chance. This was something I had never experienced before. I cannot even recall when it started. But what I do know is that it reached a point when I could not sleep at night. I didn’t dare close my eyes, in case I was attacked in my sleep.’ ‘Did Dr Munshi’s treatment work?’ ‘Yes, but progress was rather slow. He wanted me to stay here for another couple of weeks. Then he said I could go home. But now . . . it’s all over.’ ‘Will you go home right away?’ ‘Yes, as soon as the police let me leave.’ ‘You have a job, presumably?’ ‘Yes, I work for Popular Insurance.’ ‘All right, you may go now.’ After Radhakanta Mallik left, Feluda went alone to inspect the body and the place of the murder. The murder weapon had not yet been found. The police surgeon had arrived in the meantime and said that Dr Munshi had been killed between four and five in the morning. The manuscript had not been found, but the police were still looking for it. Inspector Shome had offered to let Feluda know immediately if they found it. ‘Is it possible to talk to Mrs Munshi?’ Feluda asked the inspector. ‘Yes, I think so. She’s taken it quite well, I must say. A brave lady!’ The three of us went to Mrs Munshi’s room. She was sitting on her bed with her back to the door, facing a window. She turned her head to look at us when Feluda

knocked on the open door. I gave a start. Mrs Munshi looked exactly like her brother. Were they twins? ‘Namaskar,’ Feluda said. ‘My name is Pradosh Mitter. I am a private investigator. I am here to investigate your husband’s death. I am sorry to disturb you, but—’ ‘—You’d like to ask me some questions. Is that it?’ ‘Yes, if you don’t mind.’ Mrs Munshi looked away. ‘Go ahead,’ she said in a flat voice. Her face did not bear any traces of tears. Her eyes were expressionless. ‘Do you have anything to say about this whole tragic business?’ ‘What can I say? It’s his diary that’s responsible, I am sure of it. I told him so many times not to have it published. People in our society have not learnt to face facts, and live with the truth. Many of them would have been hurt, angry and upset. But he . . .’ ‘Mrs Munshi, I have read the book that was going to be published. I don’t think there was anything incriminating in it.’ ‘I am pleased to hear that.’ ‘Are you and Mr Basu twins?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘When you suggested he come and live here permanently, what did your husband say?’ ‘He agreed, somewhat reluctantly.’ ‘Why was that?’ ‘He could not accept the idea that my