‘See how you like my card.’ Feluda fished out a visiting card from his wallet and held it before me. It said: PRADOSH C. MITTER, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR. Feluda was clearly trying to publicize what he did for a living. And why not? After his success over the missing diamond ring that had once belonged to Emperor Aurangzeb, he was fully entitled to tell everyone how clever he had been. But, of course, he didn’t really have to worry about publicity. A lot of people had come to know about the case, anyway. In fact, Feluda had received a couple of offers ‘already, but he didn’t accept them as they were not challenging enough. He put the card back in his wallet, and stretched his legs on the low table in front of him. ‘It looks like I shall get the chance to exercise my brain during this Christmas break,’ he said casually. ‘Why? Have you found a new mystery?’ I asked. Feluda’s words had made me quite excited, but I didn’t show it. He took out a small box from a side pocket and helped himself to some supari from it. ‘You appear greatly excited,’ he observed. What? How did he guess? Feluda explained even before I could ask. ‘Are you wondering how I knew? It isn’t always possible to hide your feelings, you know, even if you try. Little things often give one away. When I made that remark about working during this Christmas break, you were about to yawn. My words made you close your mouth abruptly. If you were truly indifferent to what I said, you’d have finished your yawn in the usual way, without breaking it off.’ Once again I was startled by his powers of observation. ‘Without being able to observe and take in even the minutest detail, no one can claim to be a detective,’ Feluda had often said to me. ‘Sherlock Holmes has shown us the way. All we need to do is follow him.’ ‘You didn’t tell me why you will need to exercise your brain,’ I reminded him. ‘Have you heard of Kailash Chowdhury, of Shyampukur?’ ‘No. There are so many famous people in our city. I cannot have heard of all of them. I am only fifteen!’ Feluda lit a cigarette. ‘His family owned a lot of land in Rajshahi. They were zamindars. But they also had property in Calcutta, so they moved here after Partition. Kailash Chowdhury is a lawyer. He used to go on shikar and, in fact, became quite well-known as a shikari. He even wrote two books on the subject. Sometime ago, an elephant went mad in the Jaldapara Reserve Forest and began creating such havoc that Kailash Babu was called in to kill it. His name was mentioned in almost every paper.’ ‘I see. What has all this to do with your brain? Is there a mystery regarding Kailash Chowdhury?’ Instead of giving me an answer, Feluda took out a letter from the front pocket of his jacket and passed it to me. ‘Read it,’ he said. I unfolded the letter and read what it said: Dear Mr Mitter, I decided to write to you after seeing your advertisement in the Amrita Bazar Patrika. I should be much obliged if you could come and meet me at the above address. I am sending this letter by express delivery. It should, therefore, reach you tomorrow. I shall expect you the day after, i.e. on Saturday, at 10 a.m. Yours sincerely, Kailash Chowdhury. ‘But it’s Saturday today!’ I exclaimed. ‘And nine o’clock already!’ ‘You’re improving everyday. I am very glad to note that you remember days and dates so well.’

A sudden doubt raised its head in my mind. ‘This letter speaks only of meeting you. What if he objects to an extra person?’ Feluda took the letter back from me, and folded it carefully before replacing it in his pocket. ‘He should not, as you’re a young boy. He might not see you as sufficiently important to object to. But if he does, we’ll pack you off to another room. You can wait there while we finish our talk.’ My heart began beating faster. I had been wondering what to do in the Christmas holidays. Now it seemed as if I was in for a very interesting time. We got off a tram near Shyampukur Street at five minutes to ten. Feluda had stopped on the way to buy a book written by Kailash Chowdhury. It was called The Passion of Shikar. He leafed through it in the tram, and said, as we got down, ‘God knows why a brave man like him needs to see a private detective!’ Kailash Chowdhury’s house, 51 Shyampukur Street, turned out to be a huge old mansion. A long drive led to the main house. There were gardens on both sides, marble statues and a fountain. We passed these and made our way to the front door. There were footsteps on the other side within thirty seconds of pressing the bell. One look at the man who opened the door told me it was not Kailash Chowdhury. No brave shikari could have such a mouse-like appearance. He was a man of medium height, rather plump, possibly no more than thirty years old. His eyes held a look of childlike innocence. In his hand was a magnifying glass. ‘Whom would you like to see?’ he asked. His voice was as mild as his appearance. Feluda took out one of his cards and handed it to the gentleman. ‘I have an appointment with Mr Chowdhury. He asked me to come here.’ The man cast a quick glance at the card, and said, ‘Please come in.’ We followed him down the hall, up a flight of stairs and were ushered into what looked like a small office. ‘Please have a seat. I’ll go and inform my uncle,’ he said and disappeared. We took two old chairs with arms that faced an equally old