e had been watching Sherlock Holmes on television. Feluda seemed greatly impressed. ‘Don’t Holmes and Watson both seem as though they have stepped straight out of the pages of a book? If Holmes hadn’t shown us the way, taught us about method and observation, what would modern detectives have done? We owe so much to his creator, Conan Doyle.’ Jatayu was in full agreement. ‘What amazes me is the number of stories the man wrote. How could he have thought up so many different plots? I have had to pull at my hair so frequently to get together even a rough outline for a story that I have actually gone bald!’ Lalmohan Babu, I thought, was being unusually modest. He had written forty-one novels so far. Even if his plots did not show a great deal of originality or variety, it was no mean achievement to be one of the most popular writers in Bengal. Yet one had to admit that his stories had improved considerably since he had come to know Feluda. It was raining outside and we had just finished having tea and daalmut. ‘Dear Tapesh,’ said Lalmohan Babu, ‘do you think Srinath could be asked to make us another cup of tea?’ I rose and went inside to tell Srinath. When I returned, there was the sound of a car stopping outside our house, followed by the ring of the doorbell. I opened the door to find a man of medium height, clean shaven, possibly in his mid-forties standing there. ‘Is this where Pradosh Mitter lives?’ he asked me. ‘Do come in,’ Feluda invited, ‘and you can put that by the door,’ he added, indicating the umbrella our visitor was carrying. The man did as he was told, then sat down on a sofa. ‘I am Pradosh Mitter, and this is my friend, Lalmohan Ganguli,’ Feluda said. ‘Namaskar. Thank goodness I found you at home. I did try to ring you, you know, but couldn’t get through.’ ‘I see. What can I do for you?’ ‘I’m coming to that. First let me introduce myself. My name is Mahitosh Roy. I don’t expect you to recognize my name, but I am an actor—in the theatre, not films—and a few people know about me.’ ‘You are in Apsara Theatre, aren’t you?’ ‘Yes, that’s right. I am currently acting in a play called Prafulla.’ ‘Yes, I had heard that.’ ‘I have come to you, Mr Mitter, because I think I may be in danger.’ ‘Oh? Why do you say that?’ ‘I have been receiving threats. I have no idea who might be sending these, but they are all in writing. I brought them with me.’

Mahitosh Roy took out four pieces of paper from his pocket and placed them on a table. One of them said ‘WATCH OUT!’ The second one said ‘YOUR DAYS ARE NUMBERED’. The third and the fourth said ‘PAY FOR YOUR SINS’ and ‘THIS IS THE END. SAY YOUR LAST PRAYERS’. The messages had all been