I was not sure that 133/2 Boubazar was really more than a hundred and fifty years old. But most undoubtedly it was the oldest house in Calcutta I had ever stepped into. The entrance was through an archway between two shops on the main road. There was a narrow passage beyond the archway, which led to a flight of wooden stairs. We climbed these up to the second floor, and turned right, to find ourselves facing a door with a brass name-plate on it. ‘R.D. Pestonji’, it said. Feluda rang the bell. A bearer opened the door almost instantly. Feluda handed him one of his cards. He disappeared to inform his master. In about three minutes, he was back. ‘You may come in, but Mr Pestonji cannot give you more than five minutes of his time,’ he said. Feluda agreed. We followed the bearer into the drawing room. It was a large room, but dark and stuffy. I could dimly see the figure of a man sitting on a sofa, a bottle and a glass resting on a low table before him. As we got closer, I could see him more clearly. His skin was pale, and his nose hooked like a parrot’s. His wide forehead was covered with freckles. Hazel eyes stared at us through the golden frames of his glasses. When he spoke, his voice sounded harsh. ‘But you are not one man, you are a crowd!’ he complained. Feluda apologized for our presence, and explained quickly that he was the one who would do the talking. Mr Pestonji could ignore us completely. This seemed to mollify the old man. ‘Well, what do you want?’ he asked. ‘I believe you knew Parvaticharan Haldar.’ ‘My God, not again!’ Mr Pestonji exclaimed, his tone indicating both horror and disapproval. Feluda raised a reassuring hand. ‘I am not from the police. Please don’t worry on that score, sir. It so happens that I was there when Mr Haldar’s body was found. I therefore got involved in this case purely by chance. All I want to know from you is what you really think about the stolen letter.’ Pestonji was quite for a few seconds. Then he said, ‘Have you seen that letter?’ ‘No, sir. How could I? Mr Haldar was dead by the time I reached his house, and the letter had gone.’ ‘But surely you have read about Napoleon?’ ‘Yes, a little.’ I began to wish Feluda wouldn’t be so modest. He had spent the last two days reading as much as he could about Napoleon’s life, as well as art and antiques. Uncle Sidhu had lent him a lot of books. ‘Then you must know about his exile in St Helena.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘When was he exiled?’ ‘In 1815.’

Pestonji smiled faintly, as though he was impressed by Feluda’s answers. ‘This letter that Parvati had in his collection was written in 1814. Napoleon was not allowed to write to anyone during the six years of his exile in St Helena.