I had only just finished reading a hair-raising account of an expedition by Captain Scott. Who knew I would have to travel to the land of mist and snow so soon after this? Well no, I don’t mean the North or the South Pole. I don’t think Feluda would ever be required to help solve mysteries in such remote corners. The place I am talking about is in our own country. Here I saw snowflakes floating down from the sky like cotton fluff. It spread on the ground like a carpet, dazzling my eyes as the sun fell on it; yet it stayed soft enough to be scooped and gathered into a ball. This particular adventure started last March, on a Thursday morning. By this time, Feluda had become fairly well known as a detective, so his number of clients had grown. But he didn’t accept a case unless it was one that gave him the chance to sharpen his remarkable brain. When I first heard about this case, it did not strike me as anything extraordinary. But Feluda must have sensed a great challenge, which was why he agreed so readily. The only other factor that might have influenced his decision was that the client seemed to be pretty well off, so perhaps he was expecting a fat fee. However, when I mentioned this to Feluda, he gave me such a glare that I had to shut up immediately. The client was called Dinanath Lahiri. He rang us in the evening on Wednesday and made an appointment for eight o’ clock the following morning. On the dot of eight on Thursday, we heard a car stop and blow its horn outside our house in Tara Road. The horn sounded strangely different from other cars. I sprang to my feet and moved towards the door, but Feluda stopped me with a gesture. ‘You must learn,’ he said, ‘to play it cool. At least wait till the bell rings.’ It rang in a few seconds. When I opened the door, the first thing I saw was a huge car. Never before had I seen such a big car, except for a Rolls-Royce. The gentleman who emerged from it was equally impressive, though that had nothing to do with his size. A man in his mid-fifties, he had a remarkably fair complexion and was wearing a fine dhoti and kurta. On his feet were white nagras with an upturned front. In his left hand was a walking-stick with an ivory handle; and in his right hand he held a blue square attaché case, of a type which I had seen many times before. There were two in our own house—one was Baba’s, the other belonged to Feluda. They were handed out by Air-India as free gifts to their passengers. Feluda offered the gentleman the most comfortable armchair in the living-room and took an ordinary chair himself to sit opposite him. ‘I rang last night,’ said our visitor. ‘My name is Dinanath Lahiri.’ Feluda cleared his throat and said, ‘Before you say anything further, may I ask you a couple of questions?’ ‘Of course.’ ‘First of all, would you mind having a cup of tea?’

Mr Lahiri folded his hands, bent his head politely and replied, ‘You must forgive me, Mr Mitter, I am not used to having anything except at certain hours. But please don’t let me stop you from having a cup of tea, if you so wish.’ ‘All right. My second question is—is your car a Hispano Suiza?’ ‘Yes, that’s right. There aren’t too many of those in this country. My father bought it in 1934. Are you interested in cars?’ Feluda smiled, ‘Yes, among other things. But my interests are chiefly related to my profession.’ ‘I see. Allow me now to tell you why I’m here. You may find the whole thing totally insignificant. I am aware of your reputation, so there’s no way I can insist that you take the case. I can only make a request.’ There was a certain polish and sophistication in his voice and the way he spoke, but not even the slightest trace of arrogance. On the contrary, Mr Lahiri spoke gently and quietly. ‘Let’s hear the details of your case,’ said Feluda. ‘You may call it my case,’ said Mr Lahiri with a smile, pointing at the blue object in his hand, ‘or the tale of my attaché case . . . ha ha. You see, my story revolves round this attaché case.’ Feluda glanced at the case and said, ‘It seems to have gone abroad few times. The tags are torn but I can see the elastic bands on the handle—one, two, three, four . . .’ ‘Yes, the handle of my own case also has elastic bands hanging from it.’ ‘Your own case? You mean this one isn’t yours?’ ‘No. This belongs to someone else. It got exchanged with mine.’ ‘I see. Where did this happen? In a plane, or was it a train?’ ‘It was a train. Kalka Mail. I was coming back from Delhi. There were four passengers in a first class compartment, including myself. My attaché case must have got mixed up with one of the other three.’ ‘I assume you do not know whose it was . . . ?’ ‘No. If I did, I don’t suppose I’d need your help.’ ‘And you don’t know the names of the others?’ ‘There was another Bengali. His name was Pakrashi. He travelled from Delhi, like me.’ ‘How did you get to know his name?’ ‘One of the other passengers happened to recognize him. I heard this other man say, “Hello, Mr Pakrashi!” and then they got talking. I think both were businessmen. I kept hearing words like contract and tender.’ ‘You didn’t learn the name of this other man?’ ‘No. He was not a Bengali, though he was speaking the language quite well. I gathered he came from Simla.’ ‘And the fourth passenger?’ ‘He stayed on one of