Feluda’s words sounded no less mysterious, so I decided not to probe any further. He, too, said nothing
more.

We returned to the hotel without any other excitement on the way. A few minutes later, we were seated on the open terrace of the hotel under a colourful canopy, sipping hot chocolate. Seven other tables stood on the terrace. Two Japanese men sat at the next one and, at some distance, sat the old man who had travelled with us from Delhi. He had removed the cotton wool from his ears.

The sky was now clear, but the evening light was fading rather quickly. The main city of Simla lay among the eastern hills. I could see its streets and houses being lit up one by one.

Lalmohan Babu had been very quiet, lost in his thoughts. Now he took a long sip of his chocolate and said, ‘Perhaps it is true that there is an underlying current of viciousness in the mind of every human being. Don’t you agree, Felu Babu? When one blow from my boomerang made that man spin and fall, I felt so … excited. Even pleased. It’s strange!’

‘Man descended from monkeys,’ Feluda remarked. ‘You knew that, didn’t you? ‘Well, a modern theory now says that it was really a special breed in Africa that was man’s ancestor. It’s well known for its killer instinct. So, if you are feeling pleased about having hit Prabeer Lahiri, your ancestors are to blame.’

An interesting theory, no doubt. But I was in no mood to discuss monkeys. My mind kept going back to Shambhucharan. Where was his manuscript? Who had got it? Or could it be that no one did, and the whole thing was a lie? But why should anyone tell such a lie?

I had to speak.

‘Feluda,’ I blurted out, ‘who is the liar? Dhameeja or Dinanath Babu?’

‘Neither.’

‘You mean the manuscript does exist?’

‘Yes, but whether we’ll ever get it back is extremely doubtful.’ Feluda sounded grave.

‘Do you happen to know,’ I asked tentatively, ‘who has got it?’

Yes, I do. It’s all quite clear to me now. But the man who has it is so remarkably clever that it would be very difficult indeed to prove anything against him. To tell you the truth, he almost managed to hoodwink me.’

‘Almost?’ The word pleased me for I would have hated to think Feluda had been totally fooled by anyone.

‘Mitter sahib!’

This came from a bearer who was standing near the door, glancing around uncertainly.

‘Here!’ Feluda shouted, waving. The bearer made his way to our table, clutching a brown parcel.

‘Someone left this for you in the manager’s room,’ he said.

Feluda’s name was written on it in large bold letters: MR P. C. MITTER, CLARKES HOTEL.