‘Why didn’t you ask him about Victoria?’ I said to Feluda, on our way to Chowringhee. We were in Lalmohan Babu’s car, and he was determined to take us to the Blue Fox for tea and sandwiches. Who knew a visit to that restaurant would change everything? Feluda replied, ‘Well, I don’t think Mr Biswas would have been pleased to learn that I had gone through his papers and read those words. They may not be a secret code or anything dramatic like that, but certainly abbreviations had been used for personal reference. It could well be that they weren’t meant to be seen by anyone else.’ ‘Yes, there is that.’ Lalmohan Babu was looking a bit withdrawn. Feluda hadn’t failed to notice it. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, ‘why do your eyes look so distant?’ Lalmohan Babu sighed. ‘I had thought up a wonderful plot for Pulak. It was bound to be another successful film—but he wrote today saying that in Hindi films these days, thrill and fighting are not drawing enough crowds. Everyone wants a devotional theme. The trend started after Jai Santoshi Ma became so successful. Just imagine!’ ‘So what? Where’s your problem? Haven’t you got any feelings for God and religion?’ Lalmohan Babu did not find it necessary to make a reply. He simply made a face, said, ‘Hell! Hell!’ and fell silent. The reason for that was not Pulak Ghoshal’s letter, but what we could see on our left. Our car had, by now, passed Birla Planetarium and entered Chowringhee. A veritable mountain of earth was hiding the maidan from sight. Of late, Lalmohan Babu had started referring to the underground railway as ‘hell rail’. The car kept hitting potholes, one after another. Each time that happened, Lalmohan Babu shuddered. ‘The springs in my car aren’t really as bad as you might think,’ he offered eventually. ‘When we go down Red Road—and that’s totally without potholes—you’ll see that the car is not to be blamed for these jerks.’ ‘No, we shouldn’t complain. At least we’re on a paved road. Two hundred years ago, these roads were like country lanes, not one was paved. Can you imagine that?’ ‘There were no Ambassadors running on the roads then. And the roads were not so crowded.’ ‘No. There weren’t quite so many people, but what could be seen in large numbers were scavenger birds.’ ‘Scavenger birds?’ ‘Yes. They were as common in those days as crows and sparrows are today. They were big birds, about four and a half feet high. They went about pecking at all the rubbish they could find in the streets. If they saw a corpse floating down the Ganges, they would perch themselves on it and get a free ride down the river.’

‘Oh, that’s awful! It must have been all quite wild and barbaric. How terrible.’ ‘Yet, in the same city, where those birds roamed, there was the house of the Governor-General, St John’s Church, the Park Street Cemetery, theatres in Theatre Road, and a lot of other buildings where the British lived. That area was known as White Town. Native Indians were not allowed to live there. North Calcutta was known as Black Town.’ ‘Oh, that makes my blood boil!’ Lalmohan Babu declared. As we turned into Park Street, Feluda asked the driver to stop before we could reach the Blue Fox. ‘I have to check something at that bookshop,’ he explained. Lalmohan Babu was not interested in Oxford Book Company, as they did not sell his books. ‘Long live the shops in College Street and Black Bookshop in Ballygunj,’ he told us. Feluda went into the shop, glanced briefly at the shelves, then went and stood at a counter. Rows of stationery were displayed on it—red and blue notebooks, files, diaries, engagement pads. Feluda picked up a blue notebook and looked at its price. Rs 12.50. We had seen an identical notebook on Naren Biswas’s desk. ‘May I help you?’ A shop assistant came forward. ‘Would you have a collection of Queen Victoria’s letters?’ Feluda asked. ‘Queen Victoria? No, sir. But if you can let us know the name of the publisher, we can get it for you. If it’s either Macmillan or Oxford University, we can ask their Calcutta office.’ Feluda thought for a moment. Then he said, ‘All right. I’ll get back to you.’ We came out on Park Street again. Our car was now parked in front of the Blue Fox. We began walking towards the restaurant. ‘Stop!’ Feluda said, taking out his own notebook from his pocket. ‘I can’t read if I have to keep walking in this crowd.’ A few seconds later, he shut the notebook and resumed walking. ‘Did you find anything?’ I asked. ‘Let’s first go and sit down,’ Feluda replied. When we were finally seated, Lalmohan Babu told us why he had chosen that restaurant. It was only because he liked the name ‘Blue Fox’, he said. He’d never been there before; in fact, he’d never eaten at any restaurant in Park Street. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I live in Gorpar. My publishers are in College Street. Where is the opportunity—or the need—for me to come and eat somewhere in this area?’ When the waiter had taken our order for tea and sandwiches, Feluda took out his notebook again and placed it on the table. Then he opened it and said, ‘The first line continues to mystify me. But I think I’ve worked out the second line. All these letters stand for names of foreign publishers.’ ‘Which letters?’ I asked. ‘MM, OU, GAU, SJ and WN are Macmillan, Oxford University Press, George Allen and Unwin, Sidgewick and Jackson, Weidenfeld and Nicholson.’ ‘Good heavens!’ Lalmohan Babu exclaimed. ‘How did you manage to rattle off so many foreign names without stumbling even once? God bless your tongue!’ ‘It’s obvious that Mr Biswas had either already written, or was going to write to these publishers about a collection of Queen Victoria’s letters. But he needn’t have