I had thought the news of an escaped tiger would be the highlight of our stay. But who knew something else would happen, and Feluda would get inextricably linked with it? I will not be able to forget Mahesh Chowdhury’s birthday on 23 November for a long time to come. And the memory of the scenes in Rajrappa, particularly the temple of Chhinnamasta, standing against its strangely beautiful dry and rocky background, will always stay alive in my memory. But I must go back to the previous evening. The roar of the tiger made Lalmohan Babu go rather pale. However, just as I was about to suggest he should sleep in our room, he announced that he was fine, but could he please have the big torch with five cells? The reason for this was that he had heard somewhere a tiger would retreat if a bright light shone in its eyes for more then a few seconds. ‘Mind you,’ he said before going to his own room, ‘if the tiger roared outside my window, I’m not sure if I’d have the nerve to open it and shine the torch in its face. But Bulakiprasad tells me he has a weapon, and he’s not afraid of wild animals.’ Luckily, even if the tiger did pay us a visit in the middle of the night, it decided not to roar; so all was well. We reached Kailash the following morning on the dot of eight-thirty. Lalmohan Babu took one look at the house and said, ‘The Shiva who lives in this Kailash must be an English one!’ Feluda and I had to agree with him. It might have been built only ten years ago, but its appearance was that of a house built fifty years ago during British times. A chowkidar opened the gate for us. We passed through and parked in one corner of the compound. There were three cars. Pritin Babu’s black Ambassador, a white Fiat and an old yellow Pontiac. ‘Look, Felu Babu, I have found a clue!’ Lalmohan Babu exclaimed. He had found a piece of paper near the edge of the lawn. Like Mr Sahai’s house, Kailash had a garden on one side. ‘How can you find a clue when there’s no mystery?’ Feluda laughed. ‘I know, but just look at what’s written on it. Doesn’t it seem sort of mysterious?’ It was a leaf torn from a child’s exercise book. A few letters from the alphabet were written on it. There was no mystery in it at all. Whoever had written it seemed to be rather fond of the letter ‘X’. It said: XLNC XL XPDNC NME OICURMT Feluda put it in his pocket with a smile.

A very old Muslim bearer was standing near the portico. He said ‘Salaam, huzoor’, and took us inside. A familiar voice had already reached our ears. We saw Pritindra Chowdhury as soon as we stepped into the drawing room. He came forward to greet us warmly: ‘Oh, do