It grew darker soon after we left. But it was only 4.25 p.m. Surely the sun wasn’t setting already? I looked at the sky, and found the reason. The light grey clouds had turned into heavy, black ones. Please God, don’t let it rain. The road was already slippery. Since we were now going to go downhill, the chances of skidding were greater. The only good thing was that traffic was virtually nonexistent, so there was no fear of crashing into another car. Feluda was sitting next to the driver. I couldn’t see his face, but could tell that he was still frowning. And I also knew what he was thinking. Either Dinanath Babu or Mr Dhameeja had lied to us. Mr Dhameeja’s living-room had been full of books. Perhaps he knew the name of Shambhucharan. An account of a visit to Tibet fifty years ago—and that, too, written in English—might well have been a temptation. It was not totally impossible, was it? But if the manuscript was with Mr Dhameeja, how on earth would Feluda ever retrieve it? Clearly, there were two mysteries now. One involved the diamond, and the other the missing manuscript. What if such a terrible tangle proved too much to unravel, even for Feluda? The temperature had dropped further. I could see my breath condensing all the time. Lalmohan Babu undid the top button of his overcoat, slipped his hand in and said, ‘Even the boomerang feels stone cold. It comes from a warm country, doesn’t it? I hope it’ll work here in this climate.’ I opened my mouth to tell him there were places in Australia where it snowed, but had to shut it. Our car had come to a complete halt. And the reason was simple. A black Ambassador blocked our way. About a hundred yards away, diagonally across the road, stood this other car, making it impossible for us to proceed. When the loud blowing of our horn did not help, it became obvious that something was wrong. The driver of the other car was nowhere in sight. Feluda placed a hand on the steering wheel and quietly told the driver to move his car to one side, closer to the hill. The driver did this without a word. Then all four of us got out and stepped on to the slushy path. Everything was very quiet. Not even the twitter of a bird broke the eerie silence. What was most puzzling was that there was neither a driver nor a passenger in the black car. Who would place a car across the road like that and then abandon it totally? We were making our way very cautiously along the tyre marks on the snow, when a sudden splashing noise made Lalmohan Babu give a violent start, stumble and go sprawling on the snow. He landed flat on his face. I knew the noise had been caused by a chunk of thawing ice that had dislodged itself from a branch. In the total silence of the surroundings, it did sound as loud as a pistol shot. Feluda and I pulled Lalmohan Babu up to his feet and we resumed walking.

A few yards later, I realized I had been wrong. There was indeed a figure sitting in the car, in the driver’s seat. ‘I know this man,’ said our driver, Harbilas, peering carefully, ‘he is a taxi driver like me. And this taxi is his own. He’s called Arvind. But . . . but . . . I think he’s unconscious, or perhaps . . . dead?’ Feluda’s right hand automatically made its way to his pocket. I knew he was clutching his revolver. Splash! Another chunk of ice fell, a lot closer this time. Lalmohan Babu started again, but managed to stop himself from stumbling. In the next instant, however, a completely unexpected ear-splitting noise made him lose control and he went rolling on the snow once more. This time, it was a pistol shot. The bullet hit the ground less than ten yards ahead of us, making the snow spray up in the air. Feluda had pulled me aside the moment the shot was fired, and we had both thrown ourselves on the ground. Lalmohan Babu came rolling half a second later. The driver, too, had jumped behind the car. Although young and strong, clearly he had never had to cope with such a situation before. The sound of the shot echoed among the hills. Someone hiding in the pine forest had fired at us. Presumably, he couldn’t see us any more for we were shielded by the black Ambassador. Lying prostrate on the ground, I tried to come to terms with this new development. Something cold and wet was tickling the back of my neck. I turned my head a few degrees and realized what it was. A fine white curtain of snow had been thrown down from the sky. Even in such a moment of danger, I couldn’t help staring— fascinated—at the little flakes that fell like cotton fluff. For the first time in my life, I discovered falling snow made no noise at all. Lalmohan Babu looked as though he was about to make a remark, but one gesture from Feluda made him change his mind. At this precise moment, the silence was shattered once more, but not by a pistol shot, or a chunk of ice, or the sound of wheels turning in the slippery snow. This time, we heard the voice of a man. ‘Mr Mitter!’ Who was this? Why did the voice sound vaguely familiar? ‘Listen carefully, Mr Mitter,’ it went on. ‘You must have realized by now that I have got you where I want you. So don’t try any clever tricks. It’s not going to work and, in fact, your lives may be in danger.’ It was some time before the final echo of the words died down. Then the man spoke again. ‘I want only one thing from you, Mr Mitter.’