‘In 1923. He died the same year. I was seven.’

‘Very interesting,’ said Feluda. Then he took a last sip from his cup and stood up. ‘I accept your proposal, Mr Lahiri,’ he said, ‘but we cannot leave tomorrow. We’ll have to collect our warm clothes from the dry-cleaner’s. The day after tomorrow might be a better idea. And please don’t forget to cable Dhameeja.’

We returned home at around half-past-eight to find Jatayu waiting for us in the living-room, a brown parcel on his lap.

‘Have you been to the pictures?’ he asked with a smile.

Chapter 4

Jatayu was the pseudonym of Lalmohan Ganguli, the famous writer of best-selling crime thrillers. We had first met him on our way to the golden fortress in Rajasthan. There are some men who appear strangely comical without any apparent reason. Lalmohan Babu was one of them. He was short—the top of his head barely reached Feluda’s shoulder; he wore size five shoes, was painfully thin, and yet would occasionally fold one of his arms absentmindedly and feel his biceps with the other. The next instant, he would give a violent start if anyone so much as sneezed loudly in the next room.

‘I brought my latest book for you and Tapesh,’ he said, offering the brown parcel to Feluda. He had started coming to our house fairly regularly ever since our adventure in Rajasthan.

‘Which country did you choose this time?’ Feluda asked, unwrapping the parcel. The spine-chilling escapades of Lalmohan Babu’s hero involved moving through different countries.

‘Oh, I have covered practically the whole world this time,’ Lalmohan Babu replied proudly, ‘from the Nilgiris to the North Pole.’

‘I hope there are no factual errors this time?’ Feluda said quizzically, passing the book to me. Feluda had had to correct a mistake in his last book, The Sahara Shivers, regarding a camel’s water supply.

‘No, sir,’ Lalmohan Babu grinned. ‘One of my neighbours has a full set of the Encyclopaedia Britannia. I checked every detail.’

‘I’d have felt more reassured, Lalmohan Babu, if you had consulted the Britannica rather than the Britannia.’

But Jatayu ignored this remark and went on, ‘The climax comes—you’ve got to read it—with my hero, Prakhar Rudra, having a fight with a hippopotamus.’

‘A hippo?’

‘Yes, it’s really a thrilling affair.’

‘Where does this fight take place?’

‘Why, in the North Pole, of course. A hippo, didn’t I say?’

‘A hippopotamus in the North Pole?’

‘Yes, yes. Haven’t you seen pictures of this animal? It has whiskers like the bristles of a garden broom, fangs that stick out like a pair of white radishes, it pads softly on the snow …’

‘That’s a walrus, surely? A hippopotamus lives in Africa!’