rom now on, Felu Babu,’ Lalmohan Babu declared, ‘you needn’t bother about correcting mistakes in my books.’ Feluda was sitting in his favourite sofa, busy twisting and turning a pyramid-shaped Rubik’s cube. ‘Really?’ he asked, without raising his eyes. ‘Yes, sir. I happened to meet a gentleman yesterday, in our park. His name is Mrityunjay Som, and he’s just moved to our neighbourhood. We spoke for nearly half an hour. He’s a great scholar.’ ‘A scholar?’ ‘Yes. A double MA from Herbert University, or some such thing.’ ‘For heaven’s sake, Lalmohan Babu,’ this time Feluda had to look up, ‘it isn’t Herbert. What you mean is Harvard.’ ‘OK. Harvard.’ ‘How do you know that? Was he speaking with an American accent?’ ‘Well no, but he does speak in English most of the time. A very learned man, no doubt about that. He’s actually from Behrampore, but he’s moved to Calcutta to do some research for a book he’s writing. Even his appearance is most impressive . . . I mean, he has a distinct personality. A French beard, glasses with golden frames, smart clothes. I gave him a copy of my book, The Fearsome Foe. He pointed out thirty-four mistakes, but said it made very enjoyable reading.’ ‘Well then, your problems are over. You don’t have to drive all the way to my house every day. Think of the money you’ll save on petrol.’ ‘Yes, but the thing is, you see . . .’ We never got to hear what the thing was, for Lalmohan Babu was interrupted at this point by the arrival of Feluda’s client, Ambar Sen. We were expecting him at nine o’clock. Our door bell rang just as the clock struck nine. Mr Sen was in his mid-forties, clean-shaven, wearing glasses set in thick frames. A jamavar shawl was wrapped round his shoulders. Feluda had taken me to a museum one day and shown me just how many different types of Kashmiri shawls there could be. Mr Sen took a chair opposite Feluda’s and came straight to the point. ‘You’re a busy man, Mr Mitter, and so am I. So let’s not waste any time. But before I tell you anything further, take a look at this.’ He took out a piece of paper from his pocket and offered it to Feluda. It had been crumpled into a ball, then smoothed out again. Written on it in large red letters were these words: You destroyed me. Now you will pay for it, in just seven days. Don’t think you can get away with it this time. Feluda turned the paper over, and asked, ‘How did you find it?’

‘My study is on the ground floor. Last night, someone threw it into the room through an open window. My bearer, Laxman, found it this morning and brought it to me.’ ‘Does your study overlook the street?’ ‘No. There’s a garden outside the study which is surrounded by a compound wall. But I suppose anyone could have climbed over it.’ ‘What’s this about destroying someone?’ Mr Sen shook his head. ‘Look, Mr Mitter, I am a simple man. I run a business, although most of the work is handled by my brother. I have various other interests and hobbies which keep me busy. I cannot recall ever having harmed anyone—not consciously, anyway; and even if I did, it could certainly not have been so bad as to merit a threat like that. I cannot make head or tail of it.’ Feluda frowned, and thought for a minute. Then he said, ‘Well, it could of course be some sort of a practical joke. Perhaps there’s a group of young boys in your area?’ ‘I live in Palm Avenue. There is a slum not all that far from my house. There may well be young men living there who might do such a thing for a laugh. Who knows?’ ‘Don’t they harass you for a donation before Durga Puja?’ ‘Yes, but we have always paid our share without a fuss.’ Srinath came in with the tea at this moment, so Feluda had to stop asking questions. I heard Lalmohan Babu mutter under his breath. ‘Revenge, revenge!’ he said. Feluda took this opportunity to introduce us to Mr Sen. ‘I see, so you are the famous Jatayu?’ ‘Heh, heh!’ Mr Sen took a long sip from his cup with great relish. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I came to know about you, Mr Mitter, only after reading some of Tapesh’s stories. That’s why I thought I’d come to you first.’ ‘Have you told the police?’ ‘My brother told me to go to the police, but I happen to be a bit unorthodox in these matters, you see. I don’t like doing what everyone else would do. Besides, I don’t think at this moment there is anything to feel seriously concerned about. I came to you really because I wanted to meet you. Everyone in our family knows about you.’ ‘Who else is there in your family?’ ‘I live with my younger brother, Ambuj. I am a bachelor, but Ambuj is married. He has three children—two sons and a daughter. His sons are grown up now, they don’t live here. His daughter is about ten. Then there is my mother—my father’s no more—and a distant cousin who has lived with us since he was a child. Apart from these family members, there are three bearers, a cook, a maid, a mali, a chowkidar and a driver. We live at 5/1 Palm Avenue. My father was the well-known heart specialist, Anath Sen.’ Feluda nodded, but seemed reluctant to say anything more. Mr Sen obviously sensed this, for he quickly added, ‘All I wanted to do was just tell you what had happened. You may be right, perhaps the whole thing is no more than a joke. But what strikes me as odd is that normally it is the rich and the famous who become targets for such jokes. I am neither, so . . .’