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’), when my eyes fell on the figure of a man coming from the opposite direction. He was wearing a blue pullover. I recognized him as he got closer. ‘Namaskar,’ said Shankarlal Misra. ‘I was going to call at your house.’ He seemed to have recovered somewhat, but had not yet regained his normal cheerful looks. ‘Is anything the matter?’ Feluda asked politely. ‘I . . . I would like to make a request.’ ‘A request?’ ‘Yes. Please, Mr Mitter, stop making enquiries. Drop your investigation.’ I was quite taken aback by such a request, but Feluda spoke calmly. ‘Why would you like me to do that, Mr Misra?’ ‘It won’t do anyone any good.’ After a short pause, Feluda smiled lightly. ‘Suppose I told you it would do me some good? I cannot rest in peace if there are doubts in my mind. I have to settle them, Mr Misra. Besides, someone spoke to me from his deathbed and asked me to do something for him. How can I leave that task undone? I am sorry, Mr Misra, but I have to continue with my investigation. As a matter of fact, I need your help. Different people may say different things about Mahesh Chowdhury, but you had very deep respect for him, didn’t you?’ ‘Of course.’ Mr Misra’s reply came a few seconds later, possibly because he couldn’t immediately accept what Feluda had said to him. Then he added more firmly, ‘I certainly did. But . . .’ his voice changed, ‘should one allow that respect, all those feelings, to be destroyed by one single blow? All that had built up over a number of years . . . should one let it go, just like that?’ ‘Is that what you were doing?’ ‘Yes. Yes, I nearly allowed that to happen. But then I realized my mistake. I will not let anything destroy my beliefs. I have decided that, and now I have found peace.’ ‘May I then expect you to help me?’ ‘Certainly. How may I help you?’ Mr Misra sounded almost like his old self. He met Feluda’s eyes directly. ‘I would like to know how Mahesh Chowdhury felt about his other two sons. No one but you can give me an impartial assessment.’ ‘I can only tell you what I felt. I don’t think Mr Chowdhury had any affection left for anyone except Biren. Arun and Pritin had both disappointed him.’ ‘Why?’ ‘I don’t know the precise details, for I’ve never been very close to either of them. But Arun had started to gamble. Mr Chowdhury himself told me one day; not directly, but in his own peculiar style. He said, “I would have been pleased if Arun was good. But I worry because he’s better. I believe he visits the equine communities quite often.” It took me a while, but eventually I figured out that “better” meant one who lays bets and the “equine communities” simply meant horse races.’ ‘I see. But why should Pritin have