Feluda did not even glance at the envelope. He took out a cigarette from his pocket, lit it casually and said, ‘I don’t think it’s of any relevance whether Dinanath Lahiri appreciates the value of the manuscript or not. I have promised to collect his case from Dhameeja in Simla and return it to him, with all its contents intact. And that is what I am going to do.’

Mr Pakrashi appeared to be at a loss to find a suitable answer to this. After a few moments, he simply said, ‘All right. Let’s forget about your payment. All I am asking you to do is give me the manuscript. Tell Lahiri it was missing. Say Dhameeja said he didn’t see it.’

‘How,’ asked Feluda, ‘can I put Mr Dhameeja in a position like that? Can you think of the consequences? You can’t seriously expect me to tell lies about a totally innocent man? No, Mr Pakrashi, I cannot do as you ask.’

Feluda rose and added, perfectly civilly, ‘Good-night, Mr Pakrashi. I hope you will not misunderstand me.’

Mr Pakrashi continued to sit, staring into space. Then he replaced the envelope into his pocket, stood up, gave Feluda a dry smile and went out without a word. It was impossible to tell from his face whether he felt angry, disappointed or humiliated.

Would any other sleuth have been able to resist such temptation and behave the way Feluda had done? Perhaps not.

Chapter 6

Feluda, Jatayu and I were sitting in Indian Airlines flight number 263, on our way to Delhi. The plane left at 7.30 a.m. Feluda had explained to Jatayu, while we were waiting in the departure lounge, about our visit to Pretoria Street and the ensuing events. Jatayu listened, round-eyed, occasionally breaking into exclamations like ‘thrilling!’ and ‘highly suspicious!’ Then he jotted down in his notebook the little matter of the thief and the mustard oil.

‘Have you flown before?’ I asked him.

‘If,’ he replied sagely, ‘a man’s imagination is lively enough, he can savour an experience without actually doing anything. No, I’ve never travelled by air. But if you asked me whether I’m feeling nervous, my answer would be “not a bit” because in my imagination, I have travelled not just in an aeroplane but also in a rocket. Yes, I have been to the moon!’

Despite these brave words, when the plane began to speed across the runway just before take-off, I saw Lalmohan Babu clutching the armrests of his seat so tightly that his knuckles turned white. When the plane actually shot up in the air, his colour turned a rather unhealthy shade of yellow and his face broke into a terrible grimace.

‘What happened to you?’ I asked him afterwards.