‘But the copy—’

‘Let me finish. Shambhucharan died in 1921. Fifty-one years ago. That means the fifty-year copyright period was over a year ago. So anyone can now have it printed, right?’

‘Of course!’ Mr Pakrashi shouted, displaying signs of agitation. ‘Are you trying to tell me I did wrong? Never! It’s an extraordinary tale, I tell you. Dinanath wouldn’t have known its value, nor would he have had it published. I am going to print it now, and no one can stop me.’

‘Oh, sure. No one can stop you, Mr Pakrashi, but what’s wrong with a bit of healthy competition?’

‘Competition? What do you mean?’

Feluda’s famous lopsided smile peeped out. He stretched his right hand towards Mr Pakrashi.

‘Meet your rival, Naresh Babu,’ he said. ‘When Dinanath Lahiri arrives tomorrow, I shall not ask for my fees with regard to this mysterious case. All I do want from him is this old notebook. And I happen to know a few publishers who might be interested. Now do you begin to see what I mean?’

Naresh Pakrashi glared in silence.

Lalmohan Babu, however, suddenly found his voice, and uttered one word, without any apparent rhyme or reason.

‘Boomerang!’ he yelled.