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. This would mean that that letter was among the very last Napoleon wrote before he died. It’s not known to whom it was addressed. The salutation simply said “mon cher ami”—my dear friend. But the contents of the letter and his language showed that even after he had lost everything, he was still fully prepared to stand by his beliefs. His spirit had remained unbroken. That is why that letter is so precious. Parvati had bought it for a song from some drunken fool in Zurich. It was going to come to me, for a mere twenty thousand rupees. Just imagine!’ ‘How?’ Feluda’s voice echoed the surprise we all felt. ‘You mean Mr Haldar had agreed to sell that letter to you for that paltry sum?’ ‘Oh no, no. Parvati didn’t agree to sell it. He was a most determined fellow. I used to respect him for it.’ ‘Well then?’ Pestonji poured himself a drink. Then he said, ‘Can I offer you anything? Tea? Coffee? Beer?’ ‘No, thank you. We ought to be leaving soon.’ ‘All right,’ Pestonji took a sip from his glass, ‘I’ll tell you what happened. I didn’t tell the police because the way they showered me with questions, my blood pressure shot up dangerously. I’m prepared to tell you, for you look like a gentleman. Yesterday, I received an anonymous phone call. Someone asked me straightaway if I would buy that letter for twenty thousand. I said yes, and told him to come here with it in the evening. He then said he wouldn’t come himself, but would send someone else. I must pay this man, and if I tried to inform the police, I’d end up just like Parvati Haldar.’ ‘Did anyone come?’ we asked in unison. ‘No. Nobody came.’ There seemed to be no point in asking anything more. We rose to take our leave. Suddenly, Feluda’s eyes fell on a vase kept on a high shelf. ‘Would that be a Ming vase?’ he asked. Pestonji smiled more openly, casting him a look of appreciation. ‘You do seem to know about these things. Good, very good. Yes, that’s a Ming vase. Absolutely exquisite.’ ‘Could I . . .?’ ‘Of course, of course. You cannot see the details unless you hold it in your hand.’ Pestonji got up, and stretched an arm towards the shelf. The next instant, he let it drop, wincing in pain. ‘Ouch!’ ‘Why, what’s the matter?’ Feluda asked anxiously. ‘Old age. That’s what’s the matter. It’s arthritis. I cannot raise my arm even up to my shoulder.’ ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ Feluda himself took the vase down, inspected it briefly, then said ‘Superb!’ before putting it back. ‘I had to check if what I had heard about his arthritis was true,’ he told us when we were out in the street. ‘Ah. I did wonder why you were so keen on looking at that vase. Honestly, Felu Babu, what a clever man you are! Anyway, where are we going now?’

‘Cornwallis