It was now 9.30 p.m. Our train was rushing through the darkness in the direction of Kalka. We would have to change at Kalka to go on to Simla. There were only the three of us in our compartment. The fourth berth was empty. I couldn’t guess how the other two were feeling, but in my own mind there was a mixture of so many different emotions that it was impossible to tell which was the uppermost: excitement, pleasure, an eager anticipation or fear. Lalmohan Babu broke the silence by saying, somewhat hesitantly, ‘Tel! me, Mr Mitter, the dividing line between a brilliant detective and a criminal with real cunning is really quite thin, isn’t it?’ Feluda was so preoccupied that he did not reply. But I knew very well what had prompted the question. It was related to a certain incident that took place during the evening. I should describe it in some detail, for it revealed a rather unexpected streak in Feluda’s character. It had taken us barely half an hour to collect most of the things we needed to deceive Mr Dhameeja. The only major problem was the attaché case itself. Where could we find a blue Air-India case? We didn’t know anyone in Delhi we could ask. It might be possible to get a similar blue case in a shop—but that wouldn’t have Air India written on it. And that would, naturally, give the whole show away. In the end, however, in sheer desperation, we did buy a plain blue case and, clutching it in one hand, Feluda led us into the main office of Air-India. The first person our eyes fell on was an old man, a Parsee cap on his head, sitting right next to the ‘Enquiries’ counter. On his left, resting against his chair, was a brand new blue Air India attaché case, exactly the kind we were looking for. Feluda walked straight up to the counter and placed his own case beside the old man’s. ‘Is there an Air-India flight to Frankfurt from Delhi?’ he asked the man behind the counter. In a matter of seconds, he got the necessary information, said, ‘Thank you,’ picked up the old man’s case and pushed his own to the spot where it had been resting and coolly walked out. Lalmohan Babu and I followed, quite speechless. Then we returned to the hotel and Feluda began to work on the attaché case. By the time he finished, no one—not even Mr Dhameeja—could have said that it was not the one we had been given by Dinanath Lahiri. The same applied to its contents. Feluda had been staring at his notebook. Now he shut it, rose and began pacing. ‘It was just like this,’ he muttered. ‘Those four men were in a coach exactly like this . . .’ I have always found it difficult to tell what would attract Feluda’s attention. Right now, he was staring at the glasses that stood inside metal rings attached to