hat are you thinking, Felu Babu?’ Lalmohan Babu asked. It was a Sunday morning. The three of us were sitting in our living room, chatting as usual, Lalmohan Babu having driven all the way from his house in Gorpar to join us. There had been a shower earlier, but now the sun was scorching. Our ceiling fan was moving with great gusto, since on Sundays power cuts were rare. ‘I was thinking of your latest novel,’ Feluda replied. On the first of Baisakh, Jatayu’s new novel, The Astounding Atlantic, had been released. By the fifth, four thousand and five hundred copies had been sold. ‘What about my latest novel? How can that possibly give you food for thought?’ ‘What I was thinking, simply, was this: no matter how exaggerated or unreal your plots are, you manage to get away with it simply by being able to tell a good story. Despite all their weaknesses, your books are immensely enjoyable.’ Lalmohan Babu began to look deeply gratified, and was about to say something suitable, but Feluda continued, ‘That made me wonder if any of your ancestors had also been writers.’ The truth was that we knew very little about Lalmohan Ganguli’s family. All he had told us was that his parents were no more, and he was a bachelor. ‘My ancestors? I have no idea who they were, or what they did, more than four generations ago. Nobody in the last three generations was a writer, I can tell you that.’ ‘Didn’t your father have brothers?’ ‘Yes, he had two brothers, one older and the other younger than him. The older one was called Mohinimohan Ganguli. He practised homoeopathy. When I was a child, being ill automatically meant going to my uncle and being given arnica, or rhus tox, or belladonna. My great-grandfather was Lalit Mohan Ganguli. He was a paper merchant. He had a shop called L.M. Ganguli & Sons. Both my grandfather and father looked after our family business, but after my father’s death, things became rather difficult. The shop changed hands, although the name L.M. Ganguli & Sons was retained for some time.’ ‘What about your father’s younger brother? Your uncle? Wasn’t he interested in running the business?’ ‘No, sir. I saw my uncle, Durgamohan Ganguli, only once in my life. I was born in 1936. Seven years before that, in 1929, he had become a freedom fighter, and joined the terrorists. The Assistant Commissioner in Khulna—which is now in Bangladesh—used to be a Mr Turnbull. Durgamohan tried to shoot him. He didn’t succeed in killing him, but the bullet hit Turnbull’s chin, causing a great deal of damage.’ ‘And then?’

‘Then nothing. Durgamohan disappeared. The police never found him. Perhaps the passion for adventure is something I got from my uncle.’ ‘When did you see him?’ ‘He returned home once, after Independence, in 1949. That was my first and last meeting with him. The man I saw was utterly different from the daredevil I had heard so much about. Terrorism and pistols were a thing of the past. Durgamohan had become quiet and withdrawn—in fact, much more of a spiritual character than anything else. He stayed at home for a month, then vanished again.’ ‘Do you know where he went?’ ‘As far as I can remember, he left to work in a forest—something to do with supplying timber.’ ‘He didn’t get married?’ ‘No, he didn’t.’ ‘But surely you have other siblings, and cousins?’ ‘I have an older sister. Her husband works in the railway, and they’re posted in Dhanbad. My uncle has three daughters, no sons. All three are married and scattered in various corners of the country. We exchange postcards after Durga Puja, but other than that I have no contact with them. Frankly, I don’t think family ties are so important. I mean, I value friendship much more. I am so close to you and Tapesh, you can see that for yourself. Now, has that anything to do with a blood relation? I don’t really . . .’ He had to stop, for there was a knock at the door. This wasn’t unexpected, for a man called Umashankar Puri had made an appointment to see Feluda at half past nine. It was now 9.33. I opened the door to let Mr Puri in. He turned out to be a man of medium height, clean-shaven, with salt-and-pepper hair parted on the right. For some strange reason, the parting in his hair made me feel uneasy. Perhaps it was simply that so few men parted their hair on the right—probably one in a hundred—that it seemed positively odd. ‘You appear to have left in a hurry,’ Feluda remarked as soon as greetings had been exchanged and Mr Puri had been offered a seat. ‘Yes, but how did you guess?’ he asked in amazement. ‘All your nails on your left hand are neatly clipped. I can see one nail is still stuck to your jacket. But except for two nails, your right hand . . .’ ‘Oh yes, yes. I was clipping those just before coming here. I got a trunk call before I could finish, and then it was time to leave, so . . .’ he laughed. ‘Anyway, tell me now how I may be able to help you.’ Mr Puri stopped laughing. He was quiet for a few seconds, trying to collect his thoughts. Then he said, ‘Your name was recommended to me by the Maharaja of Bhagwangarh. He spoke very highly of you. That is why I am here to seek your assistance.’ ‘I am honoured.’ ‘The problem is—’ he stopped, then took a deep breath and started again. ‘What I am afraid of is that there may be an unfortunate incident. Can you help me to try and avoid it?’ ‘I couldn’t make promises, Mr Puri, without a few more details. What exactly do you think might happen?’

Mr Puri couldn’t make an immediate reply, for Srinath came in at this moment with