‘Leaving, are you?’ Ranajit Banerjee was walking towards the front gate as we arrived at Golok Lodge. A constable was posted outside, so obviously the police were keeping their eye on the house. ‘Yes,’ Mr Banerjee replied. ‘Mr Datta told me I would not be required today.’ ‘How is he?’ ‘The doctor’s seen him. He said so much has happened lately that Mr Datta is in a state of shock. His blood pressure is fluctuating.’ ‘Is he talking to people?’ ‘Oh yes, yes!’ Mr Banerjee said reassuringly. ‘I’d like to look at the envelope found in Dastur’s room. Could you please come back to the house, unless you’re in a tearing hurry? Is that envelope now back in the safe?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I won’t keep you long—promise! I don’t suppose I’ll visit this house again.’ ‘But . . . the envelope is sealed!’ Mr Banerjee said a little uncertainly. ‘I just want to hold it in my hand,’ Feluda replied. Mr Banerjee raised no further objection. The house was dark, as on previous days. The power supply would not be resumed till ten o’clock. Now it was only a quarter past six. Kerosene lamps burned on the passage on the first floor, and on the landing. But they did nothing to dispel the gloom in nooks and corners. Mr Banerjee showed us into the living room and went to inform Subir Datta. Before he left the room, he told us that if Nihar Datta objected to taking the envelope out, it could not be shown to anyone. ‘That goes without saying,’ Feluda told him. Subir Datta looked quite tired. He had spent all day keeping press reporters at bay, he said. ‘The only good thing is that this entire business has made everyone think of my brother again. People had almost forgotten his name!’ Mr Banerjee returned a minute later, carrying a long white envelope. ‘Mr Datta didn’t mind . . . because I mentioned your name. He would not have allowed anyone else to look at his papers.’ ‘Amazing!’ exclaimed Feluda, peering closely at the envelope under a kerosene lamp. To me, it appeared an ordinary long envelope. There was a red seal on one side; and on the other, on the bottom left hand corner, were the words ‘Department of Biochemistry, University of Michigan, Michigan, USA’. What was so amazing about that? Mr Datta and Mr Banerjee were seated on the sofa in the dimly lit room. Perhaps they were feeling just as puzzled.

Feluda returned to his chair, still staring at the envelope. Then he ignored the other two men completely, and began talking only to me. He sounded like a schoolteacher. As a matter of fact, he had used the same tone many times in the past, to enlighten me on various subjects. ‘You see, Topshe, English typefaces are an extraordinary business. Bengali has ten or twelve different typefaces; English has two thousand. Once I had to read up on this subject while investigating a case. Each typeface belongs to a particular group, and each group has a particular name. For instance, this typeface here is called Garramond,’ Feluda pointed at the printed words on the envelope. Then he continued, ‘Garramond came into being in the sixteenth century in France. Then it began to be used everywhere in the world. Countries like England, Germany, Switzerland and America didn’t just use this typeface but, in their own factories, made the mould required to use it. Even India has started doing that now. The funny thing is, if you look very carefully, you will always find a subtle difference between Garramond used in one country and another. The formation of certain letters usually gives away this difference. For example, the letters on this envelope should have been American Garramond. But they have turned into Indian Garramond. In fact, you may even call it Calcutta Garramond!’ The silence in the room became charged with tension. Feluda’s eyes were now fixed on Ranajit Banerjee’s face. I had seen pictures of waxworks of famous people in Madame Tussaud’s in London. Every feature looked amazingly lifelike, except the eyes. Only the glass eyes were an indication that those figures were lifeless. Ranajit Banerjee was alive, but his eyes were unseeing. They looked very much like the eyes of those wax figures. ‘Please don’t mind, Mr Banerjee, I feel obliged to open this envelope!’ Ranajit Banerjee raised his right hand as if he wanted to stop Feluda, but let it fall almost immediately. With a sharp, rasping noise, Feluda’s fingers tore open one side of the envelope. Then the same fingers took out a sheaf of ruled foolscap paper. Yes, the sheets were ruled—but that was all. There was no writing on them. Each sheet was blank. The glassy eyes were now closed; Ranajit Banerjee’s head was bent, his elbows were placed on his knees, and his face was buried in his hands. ‘Mr Banerjee,’ Feluda said grimly, ‘You said yesterday something about a thief breaking in. That was a lie, wasn’t it?’ Mr Banerjee could not speak. All he could do was make a sound that was more like a groan than anything else. Feluda continued to speak: ‘You just had to create the impression that there had been a burglar the previous night, because you were getting ready to steal everything yourself and had to make sure that no suspicion should fall on you. Then yesterday afternoon, when you saw your chance, you opened the safe and removed thirty-three thousand rupees and Nihar Datta’s research notes. I don’t think this printed envelope was ready yesterday. You had it printed last night. Why, may I ask?’ Ranajit Banerjee finally raised his face and looked at Feluda. When he spoke, his voice sounded choked. ‘Yesterday, when Mr Datta heard Dastur’s voice, he knew it was Suprakash Choudhury. He said to me, “The fellow has become greedy again, after twenty years. He must have removed my papers.” So I. . .’.

‘I see. So you