‘You said something about a manuscript in Dinanath Lahiri’s attaché case. Was it … something written by Shambhucharan Bose? You know, the same man who wrote about the Terai?’

‘Yes, indeed. An account of his visit to Tibet.’

‘My God!’

Feluda did not say anything. Naresh Pakrashi, too, was quiet for a few moments. Then he said, ‘Are you aware that my collection of travelogues is the largest and the best in Calcutta?’

‘I am fully prepared to believe that. I did happen to glance at those almirahs in your room; and I caught the names of quite a few very well-known travel writers.’

‘Your powers of observation must be very good.

‘That is what I live by, Mr Pakrashi.’

Mr Pakrashi now took the pipe out of his mouth, looked straight at Feluda and said, ‘You are going to Simla, aren’t you?’

It was Feluda’s turn to be surprised. He did not actually ask, ‘How do you know?’ But his eyes held a quizzical look.

Mr Pakrashi smiled. ‘A clever man like you,’ he said, ‘would naturally not find it too difficult to discover that Dinu Lahiri’s attaché case had got exchanged with Dhameeja’s. I had seen Dhameeja’s name written on his suitcase. He did, in fact, take out his shaving things from the blue Air-India case, so I knew it was his.’

‘Why didn’t you say so yesterday?’

‘Isn’t it a greater joy to have worked things out for yourself? It is your case, after all. You will work on it and get paid for your pains. Why should I voluntarily offer any help?’

Feluda appeared to be in agreement. All he said was, ‘But you haven’t yet told me what your strange request is.’

‘I am coming to that. You will—no doubt—manage to retrieve Dinanath’s case. And the manuscript with it. I would request you not to give it back to him.’

‘What!’ This time Feluda could not conceal his surprise. Nor could I.

‘I suggest you pass the manuscript to me.’

‘To you?’ Feluda raised his voice.

‘I told you it would sound odd. But you must listen to me,’ Mr Pakrashi continued, leaning forward a little, his elbows resting on his knees. ‘Dinanath Lahiri cannot appreciate the value of that book. Did you see a single good book in his house? No, I know you did not. Besides, don’t think I’m not going to compensate you for this. I have got—’

Here he stopped and took out a long blue envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he opened it and offered it to Feluda. It was stuffed with new, crisp, sweet-smelling hundred-rupee notes. ‘I have two thousand here,’ he said, ‘and this is only an advance payment. I will give you another two thousand when you hand over the manuscript to me.’