‘If I asked you a few questions, would you mind?’ Feluda asked Lalmohan babu. We had returned to our hotel from Shivaji Castle about ten minutes ago. The receptionist had informed us that while we were out, someone had rung Lalmohan babu, but didn’t leave his name or a message. ‘It must be Pulak, trying to get hold of me every now and then,’ said Lalmohan babu. ‘It cannot be anyone else.’ Now he turned to Feluda and said, ‘If I could handle a police interrogation and come through with flying colours, why should I mind questions from you?’ ‘Very well. You don’t know Sanyal’s first name, do you?’ ‘No. I didn’t get round to asking him.’ ‘Can you describe him? I want a full and clear description—not the slipshod type of description you use in your books!’ Lalmohan babu cleared his throat and frowned. ‘His height would be . . . let’s see . . .’ ‘Do you always take in a person’s height before anything else?’ ‘Yes, if he is exceptionally shorter or taller than average . . .’ ‘Was Sanyal very short?’ ‘No.’ ‘Remarkably tall?’ ‘No.’ ‘Then let’s not talk about his height right now. Tell me about his face.’ ‘I saw him late in the evening. And the light bulb in my living room isn’t particularly strong, it’s only forty watts.’ ‘Never mind. Tell me what you can remember.’ ‘A broad face. His eyes . . . ah . . . he was wearing glasses. Had a beard—pretty thick—and a moustache, attached to his beard . . .’ ‘You mean a French beard?’ ‘N-no, it was different, I think. It was joined to his sideburns as well.’ ‘All right, go on.’ ‘His hair . . . salt-and-pepper. Yes, that’s what it was, and he had a right. . . no, no, a left parting.’ ‘Teeth?’ ‘Perfect. Didn’t appear to be false teeth.’ ‘Voice?’ ‘Neither too deep, nor too thin. Sort of medium.’ ‘Height?’

‘Told you. Medium.’ ‘Didn’t he give you a phone number? Didn’t he say it was his friend’s number in Bombay, and this friend was a very helpful man?’ ‘Oh yes! I say, I’d forgotten all about it. I could have told the police, but even when that inspector was asking me all those questions, I clean forgot.’ ‘No matter, you can tell me.’ ‘Wait, let me see . . .!’ Lalmohan babu opened his wallet and took out a blue, folded piece of paper. Feluda examined it carefully, as the writing was Sanyal’s own. Then he put the paper away in his own wallet, and said to me, ‘Topshe, could you please ask for that number—tell the operator it’s 253418.’ I picked up the phone and spoke to the operator. Then I passed the phone to Feluda. ‘Hello,’ Feluda said, ‘Could I speak to Mr Desai, please?’ How perfectly weird! It turned out that no one called Desai had ever used that number. The man who answered it was called Parekh, and he had been using that same number for ten years, he said. ‘Lalmohan babu,’ said Feluda replacing the receiver, ‘forget about selling your next story to Sanyal. The man sounds decidedly fishy, and I think that packet he gave you is no less suspicious.’ Lalmohan babu scratched his head and sighed. ‘To tell you the truth, Felu babu,’ he muttered, ‘for some funny reason, I didn’t like the man, either!’ Feluda’s voice took on a sharp edge. ‘For some funny reason? I hate that expression. You should know the exact reason; don’t dismiss it as “funny”. Come on, try to explain. Why didn’t you like Sanyal?’ Lalmohan babu didn’t mind Feluda speaking to him sharply; he was quite used to it. In fact, he was the first to admit that his writing had improved chiefly because Feluda did not hesitate to point out his mistakes. Now he sat up straight. ‘First,’ he said, ‘the fellow did not look straight at me when he spoke. Second, he spoke in a low voice—as if he had come to discuss some secret plan. Where was the need to speak so softly? Third . . .’ Here his voice trailed away. Over the next few minutes, Lalmohan babu tried very hard to remember the third reason, but failed. The evening show at the Lotus was going to start at six-thirty. So we left the hotel at six o’clock. Only Lalmohan babu and I got into the car, as Feluda said he had some work to do. His blue notebook had emerged from his bag; I didn’t have to be told what ‘work’ was going to keep him busy. The Lotus cinema was in Worli, so we had to go back there. Lalmohan babu was looking decidedly nervous. The film we were about to see would prove what kind of a director Mr Ghoshal was. ‘Well,’ he said to me, ‘if three of his films have been successful—one after the other—then he can’t be all that bad, can he? What do you think, Tapesh?’ What could I say? That was exactly what I was telling myself to find reassurance. Mr Ghoshal had not forgotten to inform the manager. Three tickets had been reserved for us in the Royal Circle. However, as it was a repeat show, plenty of seats were empty in the main auditorium. We realized, even before the intermission, that Teerandaj was the kind of film that would be liable to give one a severe headache. Lalmohan babu and I exchanged glances in the dark. I wanted to laugh,

but at the same time, felt concerned each time I thought about the future of Jet Bahadur. What was Lalmohan babu going to do? When the lights came on during the intermission, Lalmohan babu sighed. ‘Pulak,’ he said with a lot of feeling, ‘you and I come from the same city, same area. Is this all you’ve learnt to do in so many years?’ Then, after a pause, he turned to me and added, ‘Pulak