A conversation with Inspector Bhowmik revealed that the police suspected a gang of criminals. Apparently, Nepal Lahiri had been wearing an expensive watch which was missing when the police found his body. Plain robbery might well have been the motive behind his murder. ‘You mean there’s no connection between the theatre and this murder?’ Feluda asked. ‘No, I don’t think so. A particular gang—most of them ex-convicts—has been active in that area for some time. We found the knife Lahiri had been stabbed with, but there were no fingerprints. However, we are pretty sure we can catch the culprits soon, perhaps in two or three days. We may not need your services this time, Mr Mitter.’ Feluda put the phone down and said, ‘Ring the manager now. We need to talk to those actors.’ I got through to Kailash Banerjee on my third attempt. ‘The police have already been here and spoken to everyone. But if you must go through the whole process again, come here at half past ten on Thursday. Rehearsals start at eleven. You’ll have to finish your business in half an hour,’ Mr Banerjee said. ‘You need to speak to only four people,’ Feluda told me after I had replaced the receiver. ‘The top three in Apsara and the new recruit.’ Lalmohan Babu and I reached Apsara a little before ten-thirty. Today, Lalmohan Babu appeared even smarter and more confident. His whole demeanour had changed. When we told the manager we wanted to speak to only the top three actors and the latest arrival, he said, ‘In that case, you had better start with Dharani. Dharani Sanyal. He is our seniormost artiste. He’s been with us for twenty-six years.’ We were sitting in the antechamber attached to the manager’s room. Dharani Sanyal entered a few minutes later. About fifty years old, he had thick long hair like a lion’s mane, and rather droopy eyes. ‘I am Dharani Sanyal,’ he said. ‘You two are detectives, I believe?’ ‘Yes,’ Lalmohan Babu said quickly, without bothering to explain. ‘We are investigating the death of Nepal Lahiri.’ ‘Nepal was getting strange anonymous notes,’ said Dharani Sanyal. ‘I told him to take care, but he paid no attention. God knows why he had to go to Moti Mistri Lane. It’s not a safe area at all. If he didn’t see his friend for a few days, what difference would it have made? I even told him to inform the police, but he just laughed. A similar thing had happened to one of our other actors, Mahitosh Roy. But Mahitosh was not a star. His disappearance was no major loss to the company.’ ‘Did Nepal Lahiri have any enemies?’ ‘Certainly. Envy is pretty common, particularly among actors. But if you want me to mention names, or tell you who might be a suspect, I am afraid I couldn’t help you.’ ‘Did he ever visit your house?’

‘No. We met here three times a week. I didn’t know him well enough to want to meet him on other days as well.’ ‘What were you doing at the time when Nepal Lahiri was killed?’ ‘I was at the house of a friend, Kalikinkar Ghoshal, attending a session of keertan. You can have this verified, if you like.’ ‘All right. Thank you, no more questions.’ Dharani Sanyal left, and was replaced by Dipen Bose: slightly younger than Sanyal, clean shaven, short curly hair, a cigarette dangling from his lips. ‘Nepal and I joined this theatre together. I was ambitious like him, but not as gifted. Nepal had real talent,’ he said. ‘Did you envy him?’ ‘Yes, frequently. I often thought how nice it would be if Nepal could be removed from my path. He was the one stumbling block in my way to stardom.’ ‘You are very honest, Mr Bose. Didn’t you ever think of acting upon your thoughts?’ ‘Oh no. I am a very ordinary man, and I have a family to think of. Planning and carrying out a murder is something I’d never do, except perhaps on the stage. I might get dramatic ideas because I act in plays, but carry them out in real life? No, sir, not me!’ ‘Where were you that evening when Mr Lahiri was killed?’ ‘At a cinema. But I cannot prove it. I never keep old stubs.’ ‘What film did you see?’ ‘Heartthrob.’ ‘How was it?’ ‘Awful.’ ‘All right, you may go now.’ The third actor was called Bhujanga Ray. He seemed to be a little more than fifty, his eyes were sunken, his cheeks hollow, his nose hooked, and his hair thin. ‘How did you get on with Nepal Lahiri?’ Lalmohan Babu asked him. ‘Nepal was my best and closest friend in Apsara.’ ‘Do you have anything to say about his death?’ ‘It is the biggest tragedy in many years that’s hit not just Apsara, but the whole world of theatre. Nepal was a remarkable actor. We never clashed, for he always played the lead, and I did smaller characters.’ ‘Did you know about the threats he was receiving?’ ‘Yes, he told me when he got the first one. I warned him immediately not to take it lightly, and to stop going to Moti Mistri Lane. That area crawls with criminals. But Nepal decided to ignore the whole thing. He was convinced he’d live to be eighty-two.’ ‘Does that mean you think he was killed by an ordinary armed robber?’ ‘What else is one supposed to think? His watch was missing, wasn’t it? It was an Omega, worth at least seven thousand.’ We had no further questions for him. Bhujanga Ray thanked us and left.

The new actor, Sudhendu Chakravarty, came in next. I was slightly startled to see him, for with a thick beard and moustache, he looked as if he was made up for a part and about to go on stage. He told us he had started to grow a beard the minute he heard Apsara were going to produce Alamgeer. Before that