The diary Penguin was going to publish ended in December 1989. The one the police had just discovered in Dr Munshi’s bedroom ran from 1 January 1990 to 13 September, which meant that he had made the last entry a few hours before he was killed. The diary was probably kept on a bedside table, and had somehow slipped between the bed and the table. A constable had found it lying on the floor. Feluda took it from the inspector, opened it and found something on the very first page that seemed to intrigue him greatly. He frowned, staring at the page, then shut it and turned to Shankar Munshi. ‘Did you know your father had continued to maintain a diary?’ ‘No, but it does not surprise me. After all, he had made entries in his diary every day for forty years. There was no reason for him to have stopped.’ ‘Did Mr Chakravarty know about this diary?’ ‘I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?’ We were all sitting in the living room. Mr Chakravarty arrived a minute later. On being asked about the new diary, he said, ‘Dr Munshi used to write in his diary each night just before going to bed. That explains why it was found in his bedroom. No, I had never seen it before.’ ‘Please sit down, Mr Chakravarty.’ Sukhamoy Chakravarty sat down, looking faintly taken aback. Feluda obviously had more questions for him. ‘Mr Chakravarty,’ said Feluda, ‘you do want Dr Munshi’s murderer to be caught and punished, don’t you? My duty is to find that culprit. I now have reason to believe that the killer is present in this house. I have already spoken to all of you. But that did not tell me everything I needed to know. Perhaps I didn’t ask the right questions, or perhaps not all of you told me the truth. I did not ask you something before. I would like to do so now.’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Something has struck us all as rather strange.’ ‘What?’ ‘According to Shankar Munshi, all his father cared about was his patients and his writing. You are not his patient; but he had always been extremely kind to you. I read in his manuscript that five years ago, you had appendicitis and had to have surgery. Then you went to Puri for ten days to convalesce. Dr Munshi paid your medical bills, as well as costs for your stay in Puri. Why? Why should he have been so partial to you?’ ‘I don’t know.’ There was a second’s pause before Mr Chakravarty’s reply came. Feluda did not fail to notice it. ‘Please, Mr Chakravarty, if you tell me the truth, or at least stop hiding it from me, my work will

become a lot easier,’ he repeated. This time, Mr Chakravarty’s reply came at once. ‘I am telling you the truth, Mr Mitter,’ he said. Feluda had no more questions. Lalmohan Babu dropped us home, and left with a wave and a brief ‘Tomorrow morning!’ Feluda went straight into his room and shut the door. He was now going to read the new diary and was not to be disturbed. It was half past three. I spent the next hour in the living room, lying under the fan which was rotating at full speed, and going through a very interesting article on the Antarctic in the National Geographic. It had some lovely photos. At four-thirty, Srinath came in with two cups of tea. He gave me one, and took the other to Feluda. But Feluda came out as soon as Srinath knocked on his door, saying, ‘It’s all right, Srinath, I’ll have my tea in the living room.’ He had obviously finished reading the diary. ‘Did you find anything useful?’ I asked. Feluda sat down on a couch, took out the diary and his packet of cigarettes from his pocket, and then took a sip from his cup. ‘Listen to these sections,’ he said. ‘It might give you food for thought.’ I noticed that he had marked some of the pages. With unhurried movements, Feluda lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and opened the diary. ‘Listen to this. This entry was made three weeks ago: A new patient arrived today. Radhakanta Mallik. The first thing he did on entering my room was to take out a piece of paper from his pocket, stare alternately at my face and that paper a few times, then crumple it and throw it away into a wastepaper basket. When I asked him what it was, he said it was a report on me, including my photograph, published in the Telegraph. I said, “Was it to make sure you had come to the right person?” Mallik nearly exploded. “I don’t trust anyone. No one at all. Of course I had to make sure. I must make sure each time, all the time!” he said. I think it is a case of persecution mania. The second entry had been made four days later: Radhakanta Mallik has become a problem. He cannot live in his own house. He is terrified of his father, his brother, his neighbours, practically everyone he knows. It’s a difficult case. I have told him to come and stay here until he’s better. There are two spare rooms on the first floor. He can stay in one of them. The third entry, made a few days later, said: RM continues to cause problems. He came into my office this morning before our session. I was reading an important letter at the time, so at first I paid no attention. But when I happened to look up, I found him holding a heavy paperweight in his hand and staring at me with a strange look in his eyes. If he starts to think of me also as his enemy, how am I going to treat him? The fourth entry said: I had left my bottle of pills in my office. When I went to fetch it before