Lalmohan babu returned the following Sunday. Feluda had decided, in the meantime, that he’d offer to meet half the expenses for our travel to Bombay. He had made a little money recently—not only from the cases he’d handled, but also from writing. In the last three months he had translated two books written in English (both were travelogues written by famous travellers in the nineteenth century) and been paid an advance. I had seen him write before in his free time. This was the first time he had done it seriously. Lalmohan babu rejected his offer outright. ‘Are you mad?’ he asked. ‘In the matter of writing, sir, you are my god and godfather. If I am willing to meet your expenses, it is only out of gratitude. Treat it as your fee!’ So saying, he took out two aeroplane tickets from his pocket and placed them on the table. ‘The flight is at 10.45 on Tuesday morning. We have to check in an hour before that. I will meet you at the airport.’ ‘When is the shooting going to start?’ ‘Thursday. They’re starting with the climax—that scene with the horse, a car and a train.’ Lalmohan babu had another piece of news for us. ‘Yesterday, Feluda babu, something interesting happened in the evening. A film producer here in Calcutta turned up at my house. He has an office in Dharamtala, he said. He’d got my address from the publishers. Said he wanted to make a film from my Bandits ! It seems no Bengali film has a chance, unless it shows the same things you see in Hindi films. I had to tell him my story was already sold, which seemed to disappoint him no end. Mind you, he hadn’t read the book himself, but had heard about it from a nephew. He was surprised to hear I’d written it without ever having visited Bombay. I didn’t tell him I couldn’t have done it without Murray’s Guide to India, and Felu Mitter’s guidance.’ ‘Was he a Bengali?’ ‘Yes. Sanyal. He spoke with a slight accent, said he was brought up in Jabalpur. And he was wearing some strong perfume—God, it nearly burnt my nose! I didn’t know a man could wear so much perfume. Anyway, when he heard I was off to Bombay, he gave me an address. Said it was his friend’s. This friend is supposed to be most helpful. I was free to contact him any time I wanted to.’ Although Calcutta can get quite cold in December, I’d heard that Bombay would remain warm. So we didn’t have to pack warm clothes, and everything we needed fitted into two small suitcases. On Tuesday, I woke to find everything hidden in thick fog. Our neighbour’s house across the road was barely visible. Oh God, would our plane be able to take off on time? Strangely enough, by nine o’clock the fog lifted and a dazzling sun came out. VIP Road, which ran all the way to the airport, was usually more misty than the city-centre; but today the mist was negligible.

The plane was due to leave in fifty minutes by the time we reached the airport. Lalmohan babu was already there. He had even checked in—I saw a boarding card peeping out of his breast pocket. ‘I didn’t wait for you, please don’t mind,’ he said, ‘There was such a long queue, I thought if I didn’t check in quickly, I might not get a window seat. I’m in Row H. Who knows, you might get seats close to mine?’ ‘What’s that packet you’ve got? Have you bought a book?’ Feluda wanted to know. There was a brown packet tucked under Lalmohan babu’s arm. I had assumed it was one of his own books that he was carrying as a present for someone in Bombay. ‘No, no, I didn’t buy it,’ he told Feluda. ‘Remember Sanyal? The man I told you about? He came and gave it to me ten minutes ago.’ ‘A present for you?’ ‘No, sir. Someone will meet me at Bombay airport and collect it. He’s been given my name and description. Yes, it’s a book and is meant for a relative of Sanyal’s in Bombay.’ Then he smiled and added, ‘I say, can’t you smell an adventure in all this?’ ‘That’s a bit difficult, Lalmohan babu,’ Feluda replied, ‘as the smell of Bharat Chemical’s Gulbahar scent has drowned everything else!’ I had got the smell as well. Mr Sanyal’s perfume was so strong that even the packet had picked it up. ‘You’re quite right, heh heh!’ laughed Lalmohan babu in agreement. ‘Sometimes, I have heard, people pass on all kinds of things like this— I mean, stuff that’s banned and illegal!’ ‘Yes, that’s true. There’s that large notice hanging outside the check-in counter, warning against the danger of accepting a packet from a stranger. But then, Mr Sanyal is technically not a stranger; and I see no reason to think that his parcel contains anything other than a book.’ We could not get adjacent seats on the plane. Lalmohan babu took the window seat three rows behind us. The flight was more or less eventless—except when the pilot, Captain Datta, began announcing that we were flying over Nagpur, I happened to turn around at that moment. Lalmohan babu had left his seat and was heading straight for the rear of the plane. An airhostess stopped him and pointed in the opposite direction. Lalmohan babu turned back, walked the entire length of the plane again, opened the door of the cockpit and came out instantly, looking profoundly embarrassed. Finally, he found the door to the toilet on his left. On his way back to his seat, he stopped by my side and whispered into my ear: ‘Take a good look at the fellow sitting next to me. Shouldn’t be surprised if he turns out to be a hijacker.’ I turned my head once more and looked at the man. If Lalmohan babu wasn’t