Uncle Sidhu was no relation. He used to be Baba’s next door neighbour when he lived in our old ancestral home, long before I was born. Baba treated him like a brother, and we all called him Uncle. Uncle Sidhu’s knowledge about most things was extraordinary and his memory remarkably powerful. Feluda and I both admired and respected him enormously. But why did Feluda want to see him at this time? The first question Feluda asked made that clear. ‘Have you heard of a travel writer called Shambhucharan Bose? He used to write in English, about sixty years ago.’ Uncle Sidhu’s eyes widened. ‘Good heavens, Felu, haven’t you read his book on the Terai?’ ‘Oh yes,’ said Feluda, ‘now I do remember. The man’s name sounded familiar, but no, I haven’t read the book.’ ‘It was called The Terrors of Terai. A British publisher in London published it in 1915. Shambhucharan was both a traveller and a shikari. But by profession he was a doctor. He used to practise in Kathmandu. This was long before the present royal family came into power. The powerful people in Nepal then were the Ranas. Shambhucharan treated and cured a lot of ailments among the Ranas. He mentioned one of them in his book. Vijayendra Shamsher Jung Bahadur. The man was keen on hunting, but he drank very heavily. Apparently, he used to climb a machan with a bottle in one hand and a rifle in the other. But both his hands stayed steady when it came to pressing the trigger. Except once. Only once did he miss, and the tiger jumped up on the machan. It was Shambhucharan who shot the tiger from the next machan and saved the Rana’s life. The Rana expressed his gratitude by giving him a priceless jewel. A most thrilling story. Try and get a copy from the National Library. I don’t think you’ll get it easily anywhere else.’ ‘Did he ever go to Tibet?’ ‘Yes, certainly. He died in 1921, soon after I finished college. I saw an obituary on him, I remember. It said he had gone to Tibet after his retirement, although he died in Kathmandu.’ ‘I see.’ Feluda remained silent for a few moments. Then he said, in a clear, distinct tone, ‘Supposing an unpublished manuscript was discovered today, written after his visit to Tibet, would that be a valuable document?’ ‘My goodness!’ Uncle Sidhu’s bald dome glistened with excitement. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying, Felu! Valuable? I still remember the very high praise Terai had received from the London Times. It wasn’t just the stories he told, Shambhucharan’s language was easy, lucid and clear as crystal. Why, have you found such a manuscript?’ ‘No, but there might be one in existence.’

‘If you can lay your hands on it, please don’t forget to show it to me, Felu. And in case it gets auctioned, let me know. I’d be prepared to bid up to five thousand rupees . . .’ We left soon after this, but not before two cups of cocoa had been pressed upon us. ‘Mr Lahiri doesn’t even know his attache case contains such hot stuff,’ I said as we came out. ‘Aren’t you going to tell him?’ ‘Wait. There’s no need to rush things. Let’s see where all this leads to. In any case, I have taken the job, haven’t I? It’s just that now I feel a lot more enthusiastic.’ Naresh Chandra Pakrashi lived in Lansdowne Road. It was obvious that his house had been built at least forty years ago. Feluda had taught me how to assess the age of a house. For instance, houses built fifty years ago had a certain type of window, which was different from those built ten years later. The railings on verandas and terraces, patterns on gates, pillars at porticos—all bore evidence of the period a building was made. This particular house must have been built in the 1920s. The first thing I noticed as we climbed out of our taxi was a notice outside the main gate: ‘Beware of the Dog’. ‘It would have made better sense,’ remarked Feluda, ‘if it had said, “Beware of the Owner of the Dog”.’ We passed through the gate and found a chowkidar standing near the porch. Feluda gave him his visiting card, which bore the legend: ‘Pradosh C. Mitter, Private Investigator’. The chowkidar disappeared with the card and reappeared a few minutes later. ‘Please go in,’ he said. We had to cross a wide marble landing before we got to the door of the living-room. It must have been about ten feet high. We lifted the curtain and walked in, to be greeted by rows and rows of books, all stashed in huge almirahs. There was quite a lot of other furniture, a wall-to-wall carpet, pictures on the walls, and even a chandelier. But the whole place had an unkempt air. Apparently, no one cared to clean it regularly. We found Mr Pakrashi in his study, hidden behind the living-room. The sound of typing had already reached our ears. Now we saw a man sitting behind an ancient typewriter, which rested on a massive table, covered with green rexine. The table was placed on the right. On our left, as we stepped in, we saw three couches and a small round table. On this one stood a chess board with all the chessmen in place, and a book on the game. The last thing my eyes fell on was a large dog, curled up and asleep in one corner of the room. The man fitted Dinanath Babu’s description. A pipe hung from his mouth. He stopped typing upon our entry, and his eyes swept over us both. ‘Which one of you is Mr Mitter?’ he finally asked. Perhaps it was his idea of a joke, but Feluda did not laugh. He answered civilly enough, ‘I am Pradosh Mitter. This is my cousin.’ ‘How was I to know?’ said Mr Pakrashi. ‘Little boys