The budding film star, Amar Kumar, was now a sorry sight. He had made a full confession in the car on the way back to Simla. This was made easier by the revolver in Feluda’s hand, which he had recovered soon after the drama ended. It had not taken Prabeer Babu long to come round. Lalmohan Babu, having thrown the boomerang at him, had made an attempt at nursing him by scooping up a handful of snow and plastering his head with it. I cannot tell if it helped in any way, but he opened his eyes soon enough. The driver called Arvind had also regained consciousness and was, reportedly, feeling better. He had, at first, been offered money to join Prabeer Lahiri. But when he refused to be tempted, Prabeer Babu lost his patience and simply knocked him out. Things had started to go wrong for Prabeer Lahiri ever since he was dropped from the film. It had been a long-cherished dream that he would be a famous film star one day, living in luxury, chased by thousands of admirers. When his voice let him down and this dream was shattered, Prabeer Lahiri, in a manner of speaking, lost his head. He had to get what he wanted. If it was not possible to fulfil his dream by fair means, he was prepared to adopt unfair ones. By a strange twist of fate, the Nepali box fell into his hands, like manna from heaven. In it he found a stone beautifully cut and sparkling bright. When he had it valued, it took his breath away; and his plans took a different shape. He would produce his own film, he decided, and take the lead role. No one—but no one—could have him dropped. What followed this decision was now history. We handed him over to the Himachal Pradesh state police. It turned out that Feluda’s suspicions had fallen on Prabeer Babu as soon as we had found the diamond. So he had called Dinanath Lahiri immediately on arrival in Simla, and asked him to join us. Mr Lahiri was expected to reach Simla the next day. It would then be up to him to decide what should be done with his nephew. The diamond would probably return to Dinanath Babu, since it had been found amongst his uncle’s belongings. ‘That’s all very well,’ I said, after Feluda explained the whole story, ‘but what about Shambhucharan’s travelogue?’ ‘That,’ said Feluda, ‘is mystery number two. You’ve heard of double-barrelled guns, haven’t you? This one’s a double-barrelled mystery.’ ‘But are we anywhere near finding its solution?’ ‘Yes, my dear boy, yes. Thanks to the newspapers and that glass of water.’ Feluda’s words sounded no less mysterious, so I decided not to probe any further. He, too, said nothing more.

We returned to the hotel without any other excitement on the way. A few minutes later, we were seated on the open terrace of the hotel under a colourful canopy, sipping hot chocolate. Seven other tables stood on the terrace. Two Japanese men sat at the next one and, at some distance, sat the old man who had travelled with us from Delhi. He had removed the cotton wool from his ears. The sky was now clear, but the evening light was fading rather quickly. The main city of Simla lay among the eastern hills. I could see its streets and houses being lit up one by one. Lalmohan Babu had been very quiet, lost in his thoughts. Now he took a long sip of his chocolate and said, ‘Perhaps it is true that there is an underlying current of viciousness in the mind of every human being. Don’t you agree, Felu Babu? When one blow from my boomerang made that man spin and fall, I felt so . . . excited. Even pleased. It’s strange!’ ‘Man descended from monkeys,’ Feluda remarked. ‘You knew that, didn’t you? Well, a modern theory now says that it was really a special breed in Africa that was man’s ancestor. It’s well known for its killer instinct. So, if you are feeling pleased about having hit Prabeer Lahiri, your ancestors are to blame.’ An interesting theory, no doubt. But I was in no mood to discuss monkeys. My mind kept going back to Shambhucharan. Where was his manuscript? Who had got it? Or could it be that no one did, and the whole thing was a lie? But why should anyone tell such a lie? I had to speak. ‘Feluda,’ I blurted out, ‘who is the liar? Dhameeja or Dinanath Babu?’ ‘Neither.’ ‘You mean the manuscript does exist?’ ‘Yes, but whether we’ll ever get it back is extremely doubtful.’ Feluda sounded grave. ‘Do you happen to know,’ I asked tentatively, ‘who has got it?’ ‘Yes, I do. It’s all quite clear to me now. But the man who has it is so remarkably clever that it would be very difficult indeed to prove anything against him. To tell you the truth, he almost managed to hoodwink me.’ ‘Almost?’ The word pleased me for I would have hated to think Feluda had been totally fooled by anyone. ‘Mitter sahib!’ This came from a bearer who was standing near the door, glancing around uncertainly. ‘Here!’ Feluda shouted, waving. The bearer made his way to our table, clutching a brown parcel. ‘Someone left this for you in the manager’s room,’ he said. Feluda’s name was written on it in large bold letters: MR P. C. MITTER, CLARKES HOTEL. Feluda’s expression had changed the minute the parcel was handed to him. Now he opened it swiftly and exclaimed, ‘What! Where did this come from?’ A familiar smell came from the parcel. Feluda held up its content. I stared at an ancient notebook, the kind that was impossible to find nowadays. The front page had these words written on it in a very neat hand: A Bengalee in Lamaland Shambhucharan Bose June 1917

‘Good heavens! It’s that famous manusprint!’ said Lalmohan Babu. I