‘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. ‘What I can’t stand is my uncle’s constant digs at my—’ ‘Did your uncle recently give you an Air-India attaché case?’ ‘Yes, but someone pinched it. We’ve got a new servant, you see . . .’ Feluda raised a reassuring hand and smiled. ‘No, no one stole that case, I assure you. It’s with me.’ ‘With you?’ Prabeer Babu seemed perfectly taken aback. ‘Yes. Your uncle decided to return the case to its owner. He hired me for this purpose. What I want to know is whether you removed anything from it.’ ‘I did, naturally. Here it is.’ Prabeer Babu took out a ballpoint pen from his pocket. ‘I wanted to use the blades and the shaving cream,’ he added, ‘but of course I never got the chance.’ ‘You do realize, don’t you, that the case must go back to the owner with every item intact?’ ‘Yes, yes, naturally.’ He handed the pen over to Feluda. But he was obviously still greatly annoyed with his uncle. ‘At least,’ he muttered, ‘I should have been told the case was going back. After all, he did give . . .’ He couldn’t finish his sentence. Dinanath Babu’s car sounded its horn at this moment, thereby causing the film villain to beat a quick retreat. ‘Oh no, have you been waiting long?’ Dinanath Babu walked into the room, looking slightly rueful, his hands folded in a namaskar. We stood up to greet him. ‘No, no, please sit down,’ he said hurriedly. ‘You wouldn’t mind a cup of tea, would you?’ His servant appeared almost immediately and left with an order to bring us tea. Dinanath Babu sat down on the settee next to ours. ‘So . . . tell me . . . ?’ he invited. ‘Your case got exchanged with the man who gave you the apple. His name is G. C. Dhameeja.’ Dinanath Babu grew round-eyed. ‘You found that out in just a day? What is this—magic?’ Feluda gave his famous lopsided smile and continued, ‘He lives in Simla and I’ve got his address. He was supposed to spend three days at the Grand, but he left a day early.’ ‘Has he left already?’ Dinanath Babu asked, a little regretfully. ‘Yes. He left the hotel, but we don’t know whether he returned to Simla. One telegram to his house in Simla, and you shall get an answer to that.’ Dinanath Babu seemed to ponder for a few moments. Then he said, ‘All right. I will send a cable today. But if I discover he has indeed gone back to Simla, I still have to return his case to him, don’t I?’

‘Yes, of course. And yours has to come back to you. I am quite curious about that travelogue.’ ‘Very good. Allow me to make a proposal, Mr Mitter. Why don’t you go to Simla with your cousin? I shall, of course, pay all your expenses. It’s snowing in Simla, I hear. Have you ever seen it snow, Khoka?’ At any