The letters sent by Biren Chowdhury told us nothing. They were all postcards, most of which had nothing but Mahesh Chowdhury’s name and address on them. The few that had hastily scribbled messages had been signed ‘Deuce’. Bulakiprasad served dinner at nine o’clock. Feluda came to the dining table with some of the diaries and his notebook. There were a few more coded messages that he hadn’t yet been able to solve, he told us. I saw Feluda write these down in his notebook, using his left hand as easily as he used his right. Halfway through the meal, Lalmohan Babu said, ‘Look, Felu Babu, do stop writing; or you won’t be able to do any justice to this terrific lamb curry.’ ‘I am busy with monkeys, Lalmohan Babu, so please don’t disturb me by talking of lambs.’ Feluda was frowning deeply, but a smile played around his lips. I had to ask him to explain. He read out a line from a diary: ‘Great generosity by the worshipper of fire. The nine jewels, according to the monkeys, value two thousand Shylock’s demands.’ Lalmohan Babu swallowed quickly. ‘There’s a loony bin in Ranchi, isn’t there?’ he asked. ‘I’ve heard the people of Ranchi are all a bit . . . you know, not quite normal!’ Feluda ignored this remark. ‘Parsees worship fire,’ he commented, ‘but the rest of the message doesn’t make any sense at all.’ ‘Shylock . . . isn’t that from The Merchant of Venice?’ I asked. ‘Yes. That’s what makes me wonder. What did Shylock demand, Topshe?’ ‘A pound of flesh?’ ‘Correct. But that doesn’t help, does it?’ ‘Felu Babu, please give it a rest,’ Lalmohan Babu pleaded, ‘at least while you’re eating!’ Perhaps Feluda was really tired. So he put away the diaries and his notebook, and said he’d like to go for a walk after dinner with both of us. The moon had just risen when we set out. It still had a yellow glow. But there were patches of clouds as well, which made Lalmohan Babu say, ‘I think the moonlight’s going to be shortlived.’ Gusts of wind came from the west, bringing with them the faint sounds of a circus band. A right turn soon brought Kailash into view. We could see the house through a row of eucalyptus trees. A window on the first floor was open, and the light was on. Someone was moving restlessly in the room. Feluda stopped. So did we. Whose room could it be? The moving figure came and stood at the window. It was Neelima Devi. Then she moved away again and began pacing once more. Why was she so agitated? We began walking once more. Kailash disappeared from sight. Each house we passed had a large compound. A radio was on somewhere. We could hear snatches of the local news. Lalmohan Babu

cleared his throat and had begun humming another unsuitable Tagore song (‘In the rice fields today, do the sun and shadows play hide-and-seek’),