Mr Samaddar had told us he’d give us a call the following Wednesday. However, he rang us a day earlier, on Tuesday, at 7 a.m. I answered the phone. When I told him to hold on while I went to get Feluda, he said, ‘No, there’s no need to do that. Just tell your cousin I’m going over to your house straightaway. Something urgent’s cropped up.’ He arrived in fifteen minutes. ‘Abani Sen rang from Bamungachhi. Someone broke into my uncle’s room last night,’ he said. ‘Does anyone else know how to operate that German lock?’ Feluda asked at once. ‘Dharani used to know. I’m not sure about Abani Babu—no, I don’t think he knows. But whoever broke in didn’t use that door at all. He went in through the small outer door to the bathroom. You know, the one meant for cleaners.’ ‘But that door was bolted from inside. I saw that myself.’ ‘Maybe someone opened it after we left. Anyway, the good news is that he couldn’t take anything. Anukul came to know almost as soon as he got into the house, and raised an alarm. Look, are you free now? Do you think you could go back to the house with me?’ ‘Yes, certainly. But tell me something. If you now saw Radharaman’s grandson, Dharani, do you think you could recognize him?’ Mr Samaddar frowned. ‘Well, I haven’t seen him for years, but . . . yes, I think I could.’ Feluda went off to fetch the photo of Sanjay Lahiri. When he handed it over to Mr Samaddar, I saw that he had drawn a long moustache on Sanjay’s face, and added a pair of glasses with a heavy frame. Mr Samaddar gave a start. ‘Why,’ he exclaimed, ‘this looks like—!’ ‘Surajit Dasgupta?’ ‘Yes! But perhaps the nose is not quite the same. Anyway, there is a resemblance,’ ‘The photo is of your cousin Muralidhar’s son. I only added a couple of things just to make it more interesting.’ ‘It’s amazing. Actually, I did find it strange, when Dasgupta walked in yesterday. In fact, I wanted to ring you last night and tell you, but I got delayed at the press. We were working overtime, you see. But then, I wasn’t absolutely sure. I hadn’t seen Dharani for fifteen years, not even on the stage. I’m not interested in the theatre at all. If what you’re suggesting is true . . .’ Feluda interrupted him, ‘If what I’m suggesting is true, we have to prove two things. One—that Surajit Dasgupta doesn’t exist in real life at all; and two—that Sanjay Lahiri left his group and returned to Calcutta a few days before your uncle’s death. Topshe, get the number of Minerva Hotel, please.’ The hotel informed us that a Surajit Dasgupta had indeed been staying there, but had checked

out the day before. There was no point in calling the Modern Opera, for they had already told us Sanjay Lahiri was out of town. On reaching Bamungachhi, Feluda inspected the house from outside, following the compound wall. Whoever came must have had to come in a car, park it at some distance and walk the rest of the way. Then he must have jumped over the wall. This couldn’t have been very difficult, for there were trees everywhere, their overgrown branches leaning over the compound wall. The ground being totally dry, there were no footprints anywhere. We then went to find Anukul. He wasn’t feeling well and was resting in his room. What he told us, with some difficulty, was this: mosquitoes and an aching head had kept him awake last night. He could see the window of Radharaman’s bedroom from where he lay. When he suddenly saw a light flickering in the room, he rose quickly and shouted, ‘Who’s there?’ But before he could actually get to the room, he saw a figure slip out of the small side door to the bathroom and disappear in the dark. Anukul spent what was left of the night lying on the floor of his master’s bedroom. ‘I don’t suppose you could recognize the fellow?’ Mr Samaddar asked. ‘No, sir. I’m an old man, sir, and I can’t see all that well. Besides, it was a moonless night.’ Radharaman’s bedroom appeared quite unharmed. Nothing seemed to have been touched. Even so, Feluda’s face looked grim. ‘Moni Babu,’ he said, ‘you’ll have to inform the police. This house must be guarded from tonight. The intruder may well come back. Even if Surajit Dasgupta is not Sanjay Lahiri, he is our prime suspect. Some collectors are strangely determined. They’ll do anything to get what they want.’ ‘I’ll ring the police from next door. I happen to know the OC,’ said Mr Samaddar and went out of the room busily. Feluda picked up the melochord and began inspecting it closely. It was a sturdy little instrument. There were two panels on it, both beautifully engraved. Feluda turned it over and discovered an old and faded label. ‘Spiegler,’ he said. ‘Made in Germany, not England.’ Then he began playing it. Although he was no expert, the sound that filled the room was sweet and soothing. ‘I wish I could break it open and see what’s inside,’ he said, putting it back on the table, ‘and obviously I can’t do that. The chances are that I’d find nothing, and the instrument would be totally destroyed. Dasgupta was prepared to pay a thousand rupees for it, imagine!’ Despite his splitting headache, Anukul got up and brought us some lemonade again. Feluda thanked him and took a few sips from his glass. Mr Samaddar returned at this moment. ‘The police have been informed,’ he told us. ‘Two constables will be posted here from tonight. Abani Babu wasn’t home. He and Sadhan have gone to Calcutta for the day.’ , ‘I see. Well, tell me, Moni Babu, who—apart from yourself—knew about Radharaman’s habit of hiding all his money?’ ‘Frankly, Mr Mitter, I realized the money was