‘Kaka has gone out. He’ll return around seven,’ we were told. So this was Dinanath Babu’s nephew. We had come straight from the Grand Hotel to Dinanath Babu’s house to report our progress, stopping on our way only to buy some meetha paan from a shop outside the New Empire. Lined on one side of the gate of Mr Lahiri’s house were four garages. Three of these were empty. The fourth contained an old, strange looking car. ‘Italian,’ said Feluda. ‘It’s a Lagonda.’ The chowkidar took our card in, but, instead of Dinanath Babu, a younger man emerged from the house. He couldn’t have been more than thirty. Of medium height, he had fair skin like his uncle; his hair was long and tousled; and running down from his ears were broad sideburns, the kind that seemed to be all the rage among fashionable men. The man was staring hard at Feluda. ‘Could we please wait until he returns?’ asked Feluda. ‘We have something rather important to discuss, you see.’ ‘Please come this way.’ We were taken into the living-room. The walls and the floor were littered with tiger and bear skins; a huge head of a buffalo graced the wall over the main door. Perhaps Dinanath Babu’s uncle had been a shikari, too. May be that was why he and Shambhucharan had been so close? ‘My uncle goes out for a walk every evening. He’ll be back soon.’ Dinanath Babu’s nephew had an exceptionally thin voice. I wondered if it was he who had been given Mr Dhameeja’s attaché case. ‘Are you,’ he asked, ‘the same Felu Mitter who solved the mystery of the Golden Fortress?’ ‘Yes,’ said Feluda briefly, and leant back in his chair, crossing his legs, perfectly relaxed. I kept looking at the other man. His face seemed familiar. Where had I seen him before? Then something seemed to jog my memory. ‘Have you ever acted in a film?’ I asked. The man cleared his throat. ‘Yes, in The Ghost. It’s a thriller. I play the villain. But it hasn’t yet been released.’ ‘Your name . . . ?’ ‘My real name is Prabeer Lahiri. But my screen name is Amar Kumar.’ ‘Oh yes, now I remember. I have seen your photograph in a film magazine.’ Heavens, what kind of a villain would he make with a voice like that? ‘Are you a professional actor?’ asked Feluda. For some strange reason, Prabeer Babu was still standing. ‘I have to help my uncle in his business,’ he replied, ‘which means going to his plastic factory. But my real interest is in acting.’ ‘What does your uncle think?’

‘Uncle isn’t . . . very enthusiastic about it.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘That’s the way he is.’ Amar Kumar’s face grew grave. Clearly, he had had arguments with his uncle over his career in films. ‘I have to ask you something,’ Feluda said politely, possibly because Amar Kumar was beginning to look belligerent. ‘I don’t mind answering your questions,’ he said.